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High above.
It doesn’t always fly; but when it does, the treetops make way.
Eyes follow, tracing the glimmer:
Emerald crashing into ocean.
Violet slipping through plum.
Not bright. Iridescent.
No two moments catch the same glint. No gaze dares hold it for long.
It’s not just a peacock.
It’s the arrival that silences everything.
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