The peacock is trying to cross the road. 3 times now he’s charged into the street, lost his nerve, turned around and run back. I do the same thing. The people who say I’ll get killed this way are probably right. I hate to watch the peacock, but I can’t look away. Every attempt seems certain to be a gruesome tragedy, albeit one gaily decorated with fresh blood and peacock feathers.
After 3 mad dashes and 3 terrified retreats amid blaring horns and swerving cars, after scaring the crap out of himself, assorted motorists and myself, I see a lightbulb turn on above the peacock’s head and he’s like, oh yeah, I can fly.