Hawks scream shrill across the field,
John uncoops hens, David brings the beers.
We supervise from fraying lawn chairs while
our hapless omelet factories free range.
They putter unbothered by circling shadows. We discuss:
Is it pluck or oblivion? Machiavellian chickens?
Maybe each is sure she’s quicker than her sisters, or else
they trust that should the talons come for them
we’d intervene. We, the bum-hipped and latterly widowed,
beset by cataracts and grief, inebriate. We are like gods.
Red-tails can dive at sixty yards a second. So we toast
our little dinosaurs: to long lives; to sweet, stupid faith.