by K. R. Rose
The sun will explode
one day. But hopefully not
tomorrow, at least.
Tomorrow, at least,
the rooster will know first thing:
If he lives, we wake.
If he lives, we wake,
collect another dozen,
scatter grain, sip tea,
scatter grain, sip tea,
sit porch, watch flock—free-range birds.
O, Rhode Island reds.
O, Rhode Island reds:
you’re just too peaceful for the
sun to explode you.
K. R. Rose is an eco poet and storyteller from Boston, Massachusetts. She loves anything somewhat chicken-shaped from roosters to geese to herons. Connect with Rose at www.krrosewrites.com.