10 Beats on the Problem of Free Chickens

We had thirteen chickens and no idea

how to contain them. They were free poultry

as bold and certain as birds can manage;

they treated their coop as a daytime lounge.

Preferred were the low branches of white pine

or the comforting gnarl of cedar trees

or the seats of an overturned row boat;

though even more, high in our porch rafters,

where clucking and cooing and molting thrummed

steady, rhythmic. So we’d sit, dodging shit.

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