chickens
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Through the frosty window, in crisp air
and a silent sea of white
I see the tiptoe of a fox, bright as a burning ember
My breath snatched, I stare—
dark eyes
Then I see the mounds, scattered—
Why is it that we assume that only humans are destined for greatness,
That only we are allowed to live freely and love freely
I do not have a name.
I have three friends
To talk to, one behind
And two beside.
They’re the only ones close enough.
We love to chat, but
Sometimes we argue
Because we’re all frustrated
We had thirteen chickens and no idea
how to contain them. They were free poultry
as bold and certain as birds can manage;
they treated their coop as a daytime lounge.
