The hen fluffs tail feathers, hoping for a glance,
from the cock of the walk, a cackle and dance.
Scratching so gentle amongst the hay,
with dreams of her cock coming to play.
Alas! She sees the one of her desiring,
mounted atop another, in the process of siring.
This fowl wench will not be left out in the cold,
she strolls over to them, so quick and so bold.
Flipping her feathers just under his beak.
thinking to herself, "I shall have what I seek."
The hen whispers low, with barely a care
in the ear of the cock, "Her eggs come out square."
This poem is in the collection Breathing for Clouds, you can get a copy HERE.
©2014 Christopher Reilley
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