Their grounds abut a large colonial on Staten Island:
Five or six of them
Swaggering along verdant lawns,
Brick walkways, man-made ponds –
Such bravado. What pretty boys!
Pets of somebody, clearly.
They preen each other,
The astonishing blue of their feathers,
Slashed with generous reams of gold and emerald.
They make spectacles of themselves – oh the notions!
Little quivers ripple through them, like air in a desert.
No peahens, no audience but us.
Limbo full of pick-up artists.
It is indeed their mating season, I am told
By the woman with the long nails and Red Bull
Who owns the house.
“Who’s this all for, then?” I ask.
