By Nick Hoins
Kate hadn’t driven the blue truck that day and the metal was cool. The neighbor’s peacock wandered over while she was siphoning gas out of the generator and tried to impress the plump, brown hens. His plumage was radiant in the sun: turquoise, violet, and blue. The chickens wanted nothing to do with such a bird. Deflated, he wasn’t much bigger than they were. Kate spit out gas and was sad; he had found the old, blue truck. His feathers completely fanned, he strutted. The peacock had either found a rival who wouldn’t back down, or he was in love.