cluckings-dat-chicken

[cluckings-dat-chicken]

Sat wrapped up in a dust filled coop.

There lay a hen nether with song nor roost.

A quiet life the hen did live.

Nestled chicks in her feathers, the hen's heart she did give.

But as she drunk the next of mornings.

She questioned her sight, an unrecognised figure looking back at her, perhaps a warning?

But no matter how she scuttled around the waterer the figure followed.

Looking up at her, the figures brows furrowed.

After moments of realisation some relief passed through her.

Not a stranger but herself in the ripples.

...Not a stranger but herself

The dull feathers,

The crooked beak,

The aged eyes,

Not a stranger but herself...In the ripples.

Where were the deep maroon feathers that incited jealousy?

Where was the sharp beak so loud and proud?

Where were those lofty eyes so secure, that had the whole farm In allure?

Where was the hen with the world as an adventure, possibilities to enter, potential at her center?

Where had that hen gone?

But the rustling of unruly feathers brought her back from thought.

Her chick standing before her; so fine and haught.

With gleaming eyes,

A confident smirk,

Elven feathers that bounced off the sun,

Her hen. so true, so spirited, so much potential.

[cluckings-dat-chicken]

When i sit by myself every morning, watching the sun rise, speckles of gold warmth reflected in the blacks of my eye.

I question.

I question the rooster who at natures whim howls out at dawn, i sit by the embankment; my legs dropping lazily over stone, listening to small drops of morning dew fall from the trees, I hear the soft tweeting of early birds, feel the cool, jagid rock under my palm - the calm is cut by the shriek of a rooster.

The noise ends, once more I hear the scuttled taps of small critters.

By my mind is set, such a wrenching sound; short lived through it may be. Has dragged me back from my still state of mind, and no doubt has pulled back a weary child from the depths of sleep.

My thoughts once more start to fill with incessant drabble. I can only scrunch my eyes tighter grip down tighter of the rocks and pray thoughts of nature takes hold once more.

I question.

Why is it any sense of peace is so crudely ripped apart from me so soon after I've found it?!

Why must I cling to fleeting moments under a dimly lit nights sky for a moment of relief?. .

Why must you wake me from that, rooster?

[cluckings-dat-chicken]

Some times I ponder on what it is to be a chicken.

To have feathers that ruffle in the day's breeze. Walk under the sun, amongst battalions of feathered family. To scrape a claw against cold stone. Would you shudder as the chill makes herself known? Or would you scurry further through the rocks?

A light tapping sound, small crashes from the waves hitting the stone. Until finally making your way off the jagged path, standing sunken in cool winter sand. Would you turn your head so that one eye could take in the night-time view - watching the tide slowly roll in and out pulling with it sediment from the dormant beach? Or would you simply let the winters night fill your lungs? Stealing the crispy air away in your break.

And when your feathers have stopped ruffling, when your back In your flock nice and warm. taking in the warm summers day, will your mood sour - thinking back, how at peace you were with the rocks?