It’s
March on the Row—spring break at Little Town U—and an animal’s fancy turns to
love. Our young peacock, Frankie, has grown a gorgeous train (tail feathers) over
the winter, and he’s been putting on quite a daily show for the girls. If
you’ve never seen the peacock mating dance, it’s pretty elaborate and a little
silly…not that different from the beer-fueled mating rituals I’ve seen in our
local Little Town bar.
Here’s
a short clip of Francoise doing the dance last spring: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=31yGZUszW5o.
If you make it to the end of the video, you’ll get a look at his gorgeous blue
neck and hear the thrumming of his feathers, a sound that still fascinates me. Francoise,
who is older (wiser?) and has been ousted this year by the young, buff,
black-winged Frankie, has been spending most of his time in the rafters of the
loafing shed, where he’s out of the wind and can keep his 6-foot feathers suspended
and neat. The dominant peacock gets the harem, so Francoise seems a little
bored.
In
addition to peacock love, there are other signs of spring at the Row. Bluejays
drown out prettier birdsong with their annoying hoodlum shrieks, while woodpeckers
telegraph staccato messages. Barn pigeons do big lazy loops over the yard. Rabbits
hopscotch in the farmyard twilight, then late-night country roads turn into
raccoon speedways. And I ordered two new pairs of Birkie sandals. O yes, these are hopeful harbingers. But don’t be fooled. Prairie
people know not to trust these early tricks. Each year, Ray reminds me that
the last big snow comes AFTER the robins return, and the robins aren’t
back yet. So here’s my annual cautionary poem, and please...keep the parka & shovel
handy.
THE IDES OF MARCH
The seer was right
to warn us,
beware the ides of March.
It's a dangerous
time, peering
through iced windows
at the jeweled
tease of crocus and
daffodil.
We've weathered
another season
of deep-freeze,
locked up tight
in muscle and mind.
We're tired
of winter's grey and
gritty leftovers.
But this is no time
to get careless,
toss a floorboard
heater through
the beveled glass
and go out,
where Spring flashes
her flannel petticoat
embroidered in pinks
and greens,
leaves us gaping,
breathless,
in air still cold as
a knife blade,
stripping off the
down.
