The raven cries a lover's doom,
A Christmas turkey lifts the gloom,
But the greatest minds,
Like Poe and Dickens,
Would have got less done,
If they'd kept chickens.
Unlike the self-sufficient dove,
A chicken tasks a host with love.
When small an incubator's heat,
When large the room to stretch her feet.
High walls to keep the fox at bay,
A sheltering roof from heat of day,
Fresh straw to catch the fallen dregs
Of ash from burning grain to eggs.
Most brightly strut out their display,
While darkened Scarlett hides to lay,
Light brown gems of perfect hue,
With speckled marble marvels too,
And even one that's duck-egg blue.
But no cross lover asking who.
Her traitor hosts have secret doors,
To plunder gold and sweep the floors.
With clucking lady-like dismay
She chides as orbs are slipped away.
Beware of beaks and sharpened claws,
On feathered part-puffed dinosaurs.
Back in the coop she gets to try
By falling what it's like to fly,
Gyrating wings, a steady eye,
Our russet Icarus sees sun and sky,
But now is not the time to die,
She lands on straw and pecks some rye.
© 2017 Gavin Miller. All rights reserved.