Pre-Spring Warning

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.

The Case of the Disappearing Peafowl

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Dahl, Rapid City - peacock made of silverware.

If you followed my earlier peacock blogs, then you know that 2012—a drought year that drove almost all wildlife to scrounge for nontraditional food—was a rough year for the flock. No chicks were hatched here this year, and after a couple of unsuccessful nesting attempts (something(s) ate all the eggs in two rounds of laying), most of the flock took off for greener, more predator-free parts unknown. So here at the Row, we’re down to 4 birds—2 males and 2 females. Since we typically lose a bird or two over the winter, we’re really down to critical mass as far as the flock is concerned.

We made a single bold attempt to go the pragmatic, stoic homesteader route this summer. We bought live animal traps and set them in the barn. The first night, we caught a very large mama raccoon. The next day, I hauled the cage out to the yard, then I sat in the grass and talked to her about why she was in the cage. I explained that if she’d stuck to frogs and toads and hadn’t started dining on peacocks, she wouldn’t be in that predicament. I called my near-son-in-law over, and our plan was to load the raccoon up—cage and all—in his car, and release her at the river. But then we noticed she had already chewed through several bars of the trap. The vision of her getting out of the cage in his car and wrapping herself around his head while he was driving her to the river was just too ugly, so we decided we would have to buck up and shoot her. He did the dirty work—he talked to her for a long while, shot her, then prayed over her. It was an emotionally-wrenching day for both of us (and a tragic day for Mama Raccoon, too). I’m a huge fan of Yukon Men, with their homemade corrals of strung-together beaver and badger pelts, but I know now that two semi-Buddhist, bleeding-heart pacifists will probably never be good trappers. So I’m in the process of turning the traps into planters.

My peacock teapot.

Anyway, maybe the peaflock’s dwindling numbers are the Universe’s way of lightening my post-stroke workload. I miss the peacocks, don’t get me wrong—at one point, our flock was up to 28 birds—watching them, feeding them, picking up those long eye feathers in the fall…it all brings me great joy. But I’m trying to practice my best compassionate detachment, learning to trust in and be grateful for the wisdom of the Universe.

Jada, Yogi, and a dsplaying peacock.

I keep hoping the flock is out there somewhere, happy & healthy & slowly making their way back home. But they aren't homing pigeons, and their brains are really VERY tiny. Then my friend L told a story about her dad herding wayward geese home with a frontloader because they weren’t smart enough to find their own way. I can picture the peas out there somewhere, wandering in circles and wondering where their corn & cat food buffet went. We don’t have a frontloader, so another option might be to bring in some new peafowl next spring and re-invent our flock, just as I’m re-inventing myself after the stroke. Seems fitting somehow. And now that we know Barack’s in for another term, maybe I can get a peafowl husbandry grant....For now, though, I’m just thrilled to see our 4 remaining peacocks wandering about, and for “occupational therapy,” I’m knitting them all reflective orange safety vests for the hunting/holiday season.