The story of how a peacock stole an hour and a half of my time

First of all, I want to say this.

This is not a particularly useful story.

It is a story about how an hour and a half passed while I was watching a peacock.

The sense of time on remote islands is crazy.

On the remote islands of Okinawa, the flow of time is different.

When I am on the mainland, "an hour and a half" is a unit of time used to "consume" something—a meeting, a commute, or a movie.

But on a remote island, before you know it, you have spent it on a peacock.

I had intended to do some reading. I thought I would open a book on a bench at a small observation deck and return home a little wiser.

But that hour and a half was entirely stolen by a peacock.

At first, I thought it was a balloon.

I sat on the bench and aimlessly looked at the trees in front of me.

A blue mass was moving slowly.

Is that a balloon?

This vivid blue. The size. But there is a rustling, squirming sound.

This is clearly the sound of a living creature.

I stare at it intently.

It was a large male peacock.

I am not surprised to see a peacock. There are many feral peacocks living on this island. The reason I was surprised was different—even at such close range, it did not run away.

Peacocks are naturally bundles of caution. The moment they sense a human presence, they flip those long tails of theirs and flee at full speed. That is common knowledge.

And yet, this one does not run.

As if it cannot even hear me talking, it just stands there.

Its appearance could be called divine, or perhaps just carefree.

The arrival of the boss, and the gathering of the minions

A short while later, there was a rustling sound from the bushes on the opposite side as well.

When I thought, "Not again," sure enough, there were three more.

One male, two females.

Before I knew it, the small observation deck was surrounded by four peacocks.

The three were pecking at the grass on the lawn, gradually approaching the large peacock perched in the tree. The large peacock looked down at the three, craning its neck this way and that.

I thought they were minions gathering around their boss.

At that moment, I took a good, hard look at the male's entire body. It was huge. Or rather, long. It was incredibly long horizontally. Longer than a five-person round table.

With that body, it pushes through bushes, leaps into trees, and runs.

The more I looked, the more I wondered how it manages with a body like that.

The male walked toward the slope. It held its long tail straight up, keeping it from dragging on the asphalt as it descended. It showed an unexpectedly delicate level of care.

The boss theory, debunked.

A sudden turn of events occurred here.

One male and one female completely ignored the boss, headed down the slope, and disappeared from sight.

All that remained were the boss, perched on the tree, and the female, who continued to peck at the grass.

I watched, thinking, "The boss will probably move soon"—but—

He didn't move.

He would prepare to jump down, then stop.

He would get ready again, then stop.

He would back up and return to his original spot.

...Oh, he can't get down, can he?

Could it be that the "boss" had climbed the tree but couldn't get down, and had been troubled the whole time?

That dignified posture, those darting eyes—could it all have been a cry for help?

In that moment, his divine aura instantly turned into a comedy routine.

Finally, it made up its mind and flew.

Crack, crack, crack.

With a roar, it moved to the branch one level down.

A massive body, moving only a tiny bit.

Once more, a roar.

And then, it vanished from sight.

Whether it flew or fell, I don't know.

It simply disappeared.

The female kept pecking at the grass as if nothing had happened.

Honestly, it was more interesting than the book.

I had planned to read, but this completely surpassed that.

After returning home, only one mystery remained.

Why didn't it notice me, even though I got so close?

I was curious, so I asked an AI.

The answer was surprisingly clear.

A peacock's field of vision is extremely wide, about 300 degrees horizontally. However, due to its anatomy, the areas directly above and directly behind it are complete blind spots.

In other words, as we looked down from the bench on the observation deck, we were perfectly positioned in the peacock's 'overhead blind spot'.

Furthermore, regarding sound, voices from an elevated outdoor area are difficult to hear below due to wind direction and ambient noise. While peacocks are sensitive to 'footsteps approaching on the ground' or 'suspicious movements to the side,' they apparently do not perceive distant voices from above as an immediate threat.

Conclusion: The peacock wasn't letting its guard down; it physically couldn't notice us.

There was a perfectly good reason for that divine demeanor.

What was I talking about again?

An hour and a half.

I was watching a peacock.

I went home and looked up information about peacocks.

And now, I am writing to you about the peacock.

This is what time on a remote island is like.

Whether it has meaning or not, I will know later.

Or perhaps, I will never know.

Even so, it was not a bad hour and a half.

Thank you for reading.