From a childhood past
I watched the swell of blood rise up,
Assuming passage to the dim, lit brain,
The bird, in flightless fright, still flapping,
Insane for yardage, to drain.
Yet, had head not been severed,
and maybe, watching the aimless
Scatter of others been able to convey
a certain calmness to its and their
Soon coming plight,
A dignity toward the soon coming night
For all its kind,
I would have turned away and
Marveled at a chicken's right
to sacrifice for me
What might become my dinner.
Take the hen.
A force so powerful to populate,
To reach a level that would negate
The hunger of a crowded state,
It suffers the pressure, forcing slow flow of
Hardened shell, to emerge from that
Narrow necked well, to drop and roll
Onto a spring-loaded, moving cell.
Monumental!
And yet, nary a squawk.
It lives covered and uncovered,
Some mysterious sake commanding.
Then, there's the rooster.
Majestic plumes, an aura to the pack,
A coxcomb swagger from the missions
Done and yet to come,
A blind ambition, reason lacks,
To mount the multitudinous backs.
Insatiable!
The strut of power, passing hens,
That cluck a welcome as he bends
Forward to gauge the leap
To one more quarry for his ends.
I know my chickens very well.
Scattered, they move their circles in a
Pecking swell, unaware of what befell
The worn out layers of a life,
On which we dwell,
Convened in a fryer's hell.
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