hens

I hear them as soon as I turn off

the engine

they are letting me know they have impatiently awaited my return

I open the door to the coop

and scatter grain

the two hens left

set to work

talons charting their world with lines

cut in freshly strewn straw

undaunted by memories of the sister

abducted by a fox the night before

maybe

the best that can be said of memory

is that it mellows disillusion

blurs equivalency

no need to know the reason

why visions of togetherness

and loss are

beaten from the same clay

I watch them as I repair the fence

glad they

at least

avoided the hunt

and silently wished that

should I perish away from here

my bones would be gathered

and brought to this ridge

like Yeats’ disputed return to Sligo

and interred

somewhere out back of the house

the spot

marked by a fruit bearing tree

or a bush full of thorns

that

being the last judgment

regarding my demeanor

(c) 2017 Fred Whitehead