chicken city

always the morning cacophony:
the squawks, the boks,
round little eyes blinking awake,
letting in the early light.

eggs drop out warm,
roll a little to the side;

half a dozen heads bob,
assessing the day
with choppy dinosaur movements.

there is much business to get in order —
that pile of straw should be sorted out,
and we need to stomp around
the creek for a little while,
you know,
show the salamanders who’s boss.
and i don’t know about the rest of you hens,
but i’ve about had it with the family dog
throwing us the hairy eyeball.

so runs the discourse
til the sky turns cornflower blue
and the white moon peeks up.
then it’s time, sisters,
to pretend we’re in our eggshells again.

half a dozen bodies
huddle, puffed up like feather pillows,
eyes squeezed tight,
ears straining for some lost lullaby.
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© 2024 nessa jasper