Without Feathers or I Ain’t A Molting Anymore
Peacocks migrate and perch in City of Magnificent Intentions on and more off each year (since they favor recesses over Peafowl sessions, whenever flight permits.) Peacocks promenade and pontificate about making the Great Eagle—the pioneer and founder of the Republic of Fowls—great again.
Peacocks are known for their penetrating calls at meetings, and are always ready to fan their eye-spotted, enormously-elongated tail feathers. (They arch and display their iridescent plumage as part of pomposity rituals.) Peacocks flock in clandestine bevies, to partial out the choicest kernels of golden corn—both in domestic zones, and in their plush home nests. (Some even chirp, cluck, and broadcast fowl tweets against climate change in their climate-controlled, opulent rookeries.)
Pedigreed Peacocks are known for squabbling and pugnacious temperaments—especially when, across the Republic of Fowls, common sparrows gather and presume to twitter seditious harmonies. Some sang “Always the old birds who led us into war; always the fledglings who fought.”
Recently, across the Fowl Kingdom, thousands of sparrows sang, and some were cooped up by armies of Blue jays:
“Birds of a feather flutter together,
Regardless of alternative weather.
When tunes of truth and facts are mucked,
Common sparrows get flushed and hushed.
Though Peacocks’ pitch sinuous words,
Fine feathers still don’t make fine birds.
When tunes of truth and facts are shucked,
Common sparrows get flushed and plucked.”