Image: ChatGPT but with human intervention
thistles horns stiff treat wee chirping fit down stick blushing out moment
A secondary prompt by Poets and Storytellers write about “food as ritual”.
Fair Weather and Fowl
The first light is blushing
the scattered clouds.
It is perfect—mild and still.
The birds have long risen
And chatter in the trees.
The hens, wings clipped,
View them with envy.
The hens like thistles—
Milk ones at any rate.
They rush out and about
The moment you appear
With this sappy treat.
Each to their own, I guess.
The small hatchlings,
“The wee chicks”
the Scot used to call them,
Stick close to mum,
Chirping, trying to fit
Beneath her wings.
Beyond the yard,
The day unfolds, indifferent.
Traffic noises, planes,
The needless, urgent horns
Of needlessly impatient drivers.
They have evolved
From dinosaurs they say.
The chickens, I mean—
(Although maybe both.)
Bonsai velociraptors.
They stalk, stiff-legged,
Through the garden,
Relocating the mulch
Out onto the lawn,
Bringing terror to the
Now exposed insect life.
Secretly, I suspect they,
These fowl on the prowl,
Are looking for a librarian to eat
Trying to lure one into the open
With a gentle coaxing call:
“Book! Book! Book!”
The day draws to a close.
The birds quieten,
The chooks are asleep,
The stars appear,
Life continues—
But quietly.
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