I came upon this fellow at a ranch in New Mexico; he started strutting and preening as soon as I pulled out my camera. The snapping sound of the fan of feathers as they unfurl is unforgettable; so too the blue cast of the radiant white feathers. As we are under a dusting of snow this morning, this powdery angel seemed to fit the landscape--outdoors, and of my mind. Tis the season for celestial visitations. Of course anything this beautiful has personality problems, and people who have lived around peacocks--including Southerners of the romantic persuasion, who understand over-the-top garden ornamentation--know the shock of being awakened by cries that sound as if infants were being tortured. Still, I'm going to declare white peacocks to be messengers of shimmering good luck, and I send him along to you with hopes for eternal, or at least, diurnal, happiness.