A Peacock Tale by Lori Yamamoto

earth hums rust low a slow bloom under our feet leaning light stands where the gray starts to tear quiet peeks out like a mouse from the wall plume eye blinks blue one, two, many shy sapphires feather asks sky how many blues can fit here? slide, split, spiral each curl a held breath five little beads crimson, indigo, old brass we are the loom but the loom is also us cracks sing tiny the only honest music wire inside hums tight as a clothesline in wind i feel it hum against the drum of my ribs language too soft for ears, only for skin we strum the hush sky yawns, lets the note go last feather falls a sigh lighter than paper tail becomes wind brushing the empty ground ash, echo, gone we melt back into morning peacock is air only the quiet remains