My #chickens, strutting.
A Poem By: Kristin Munson
Ciara was always a beautiful chicken.
As a chick, she had come to them with tidy white plumage on strong, long wings.
She had stood with top model flair, in a fluffy coat of white-blonde marabou,
at least 3/4 inches taller than all the other poof balls.
Her smallest sister, Nugget, would tuck herself between Ciara’s legs
As they snuggled under the heat lamp.
Today she is a large chicken,
21 weeks old,
Mature, and laying one large brown egg,
Every other day.
She has pristinely white feathers,
Which she routinely dusts to keep mites away.
She is their quiet leader,
Unphased by the emotional tirades
of her sister Sookie, the bossy French Faverolle.
Yesterday she had a limp.
Turned over topsy by her keeper, she was found not to have
A most fearful and adorably named affliction:
With no bumble foot in sight, the doctors orders were simply to
Get some rest, sweet chicken.
Today, eating grass, the limp is so slight
It may not actually be there at all.
Ciara is a worm assassin.
If you’re a worm, you’d better get on home
to your hermaphroditic mate
and your vaguely lemon-shaped egg cases,
because Ciara will mercilessly snap you from the soil,
give her fluffy white face a quick toss,
Before slurping you down,