Katie in the Chicken Yard
Katie in the Chicken Yard
She would sit there all day
Balanced on the rickety board
Laid across plastic buckets
The chickens use for roosting,
Watching
The young ones pecking their elders
The fluffing bawking mass of them
Cocking their cold orange eyes
At her four-year-old tallness.
Arms outstretched, she follows them
Around, around their small perimeter,
Long after the egg-gathering ritual is complete.
“Catch me a chicken, Grandma,”
she begs.
“Again, again!”
One last hen.
She reaches out,
tentative, to stroke soft feathers.
“Now, your turn.”
Apprehension wars with chicken lust
in her little girl eyes.
Circling, circling till the hen crouches,
Dares her to grasp with tiny sun-browned arms
That russet plumpness.
Small hands close gently.
She feels the hollow bones beneath
Echo the rapid heartbeat in her chest.
It takes eternity-and a moment-to master fear.
photos @ 2005 Linda Dufurrena