We built you a gorgeous run and coop, and yet, on the deck: poop. We are fierce. We chase bugs. We storm your house: poultry thugs. A rainbow of chickens: black and white and yellow-red-heather, Each lady different, still birds of a feather. A cat in repose, soaking sunlight, ignores you, reminiscing: you could have been a morsel of food. Swooping low, a flycatcher’s lunch is made Below, a hen bawks her territorial tirade. If ever a list of noble creatures were made, Surely, my flock, you’d be somewhere toward the middle. Chickens eat bugs and leaves and flowers and scraps, and when I get lucky, they snuggle in my lap. Look, girls, I know you’re fast becoming chooks, But must you leave feathers everywhere I look?