Peacocks won't dance for nothing. They would wait for rains and peahens who would trail them having dropped their envy and sexist pretence.
They would open their plumes wide in a charming fan, take a swirl or two - the drizzle giving an impetus to their steps and rhythmic stance.
Not caring for effeminate abandon, they would tilt their long blue necks, bob their heads a bit, showing off delicately feathered crowns. They would then squeal through the winds - each one of them saying 'Kao, Kao, I am here, come to me' in rousing cadence.