A Spent Peacock Feather

We can all learn a lot from the motionless setting sun beneath waving palm trees It looks like a spent peacock feather shaken free, cast disparagingly aside. Caring not who stomps on it. Just as long as it can glide to its final destiny. Fall in its majesty, float to its eternal rest. A cascading, arching arrow, eyes that weep ah, how their sorrows linger in their beauty much more than if they had no beauty or colour of their own. But better still come the morn the peacock Will proudly give us all its morning call.