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Description
If you've ever heard the plaintive call of that exotic pheasant, the PEACOCK, peeling into the stillness of a late summer's eve when the frogs are croaking and the crickets are chirping in the thick tropical air, occasionally interrupted by gators warping - many, a bit too close for comfort - and the moonlight is pale, shimmering in a light dew that just settled upon the grass between your toes, and the melancholy voice of that beautiful bird beckons to you, again and again - and you realize...it's enough to make you want to get your gun and blow it's damn head off!
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