Wind In The Timothy Press

Old White Brahma

A muggy Sunday when I let the others out to eat grass

She’s missing; I find her weak and listless

In the big chicken yard, tucked up, hunched

Her massiveness has turned to fluff and dream

I didn’t know her as a chick, having rescued her, adult

But this day would come

Why do they avert their heads, as if ashamed, old dying hens?

Or are they sad?

Her sister-mate is still so strong, looming large

The difference that can exist between two so alike –

It means?

I carry her to grassy tufts, where she walks briefly

Then settles down in a patch of sun

The most anyone can do right now is let her sit in heaven

The others walk to meet her: a young Rhode Island red

Seems unthinking and steps on her

I think – or is it a help? Is it better, if a dying hen,

To be trod on by one’s mates than gasp for breath another night?

Is this hen-nursing care?  Is this hen-goodbye?

The flies buzz over and walk on her

She can’t shake them off –

She’s a-dying and sits receiving visitors

Her sister Brahama communes awhile beside her, then leaves

I must watch and watch

Death comes next day on Monday

At day’s end I lay her on a bench outside their yard

A noisy rain storm has washed her

The others crowd up against their enclosing wire

Seeing her outside, long and redefined by rain, feet uncurled

Lynn Chong

Back Issue    Spring 2004