by Sabrina Green
There is one hen in four-hundred who committed to a full molting
Molding, moulding
Shedding and pulling worn-out, sun
Bleached feathers, like chopping weathered locks
It is a perilous endeavor to do so,
With a flock it is en masse.
Hens do not like new, or different, or bright- my glasses and invitation
For pecks and investigation.
Against the grain, individualism is a danger, heretic
The naked girl, Diogenene woman, she withdraws.
No eggs, avoiding her sisters in the cloistered nest bars of the barn
On the furthest, thistle-i-est bones of the August pasture.
What heart she has
If she does not draw the judgmental ire of her flock, the feathers
Will come in plush and full, and she will be the finest
Of all the unchanged dames and will be warm and flush in winter.
Sabrina Green is a recovering chicken and vegetable farmer currently writing poetry and vagabonding about the Montana Rockies.