Janice
Dabney
The
rooster crowed throughout the day but stopped as Father poured
Feed
bought from Carr’s the Saturday before, divided now
In
barrels filled with mash and scooped for birds with empty craw.
Each
evening without fail, two figures bundled up for cold
Or
stripped to shorts, depending on the season which ignored
These
acts of kindness and scored our own desire as foul.
I
dug beneath the setting hens and saw the chicken scowls
As
beaks drew blood in anger at my raid of nests, or floor
Or
any surface where they tried to brood, an instinct strong
In
all the species of the world who roost in wood-framed houses.
Their
water changed, we grabbed old beets from hardened soil, threw long
Into
the yard those rounded shapes which bled their juice much less.
My
father held his hankie to my wound and I belonged
To
farmers in my past, re-living joy of day’s success.