I’d like you to know chickens,
but seeing as there many
(many more than us, at least)
I will instead introduce you to four
very respectable birds.
Meet and greet,
strive to see the complicated spirit
of a forgotten order
and a neglected breed.

First, the lieutenant,
chief executive of all things important,
covered in tawny plumage
and imbued with quiet ferocity.
Captain of rigid order,
queen of the western roost
and the mossy brick piles,
companion to the nervous and the feeble;
bearing forever the harrowing memory
of sharp talons and scattered feathers.

I’d like you to know chickens.

Next is the conservator,
mother to unwanted children
and caregiver to those who seek
a warm wing or a soft flank
under which to safely rest.
Born of keen eye
and keener appetite,
pausing only when obligation allows,
a black and white form
settled calmly upon the grass,
the go-to friend
who tolerates all griefs.

I’d like you to know chickens.

Then, the spitfire,
brash, possessive
and entirely self-assured;
a barracuda among goldfish,
a shard of slate disappearing
into her fortress among the thorn bushes,
and yet the quickest
to dive under a comforting wing
on nights when prowling foxes scream
and cold winds howl.

I’d like you to know chickens.

Finally, the sentinel,
warning of danger,
scavenging for his flock,
and launching into battle
against those who would dare to harm.
Each frozen morning,
glaring midday,
and lonesome gloaming,
he stands to make the welkin ring;
white feathers streaked with threads of flax,
the veins of a gold mine running
through a small heap of cotton;
that simple,
and yet that extraordinary;
all soft reassurances as he timidly offers me
the mangled corpse of a cricket
(but I’m not hungry).

I’d like you to know chickens.

Proud descendants of primeval giants
and the petite junglefowl,
carried to every corner of the world
as the unsung foundation stones
of our own blundering survival.

Faster learners than man’s best friend,
problem solvers and conquerors,
equal parts cruel and considerate,
willing to die for their own;
yet so often relegated to little more
than mindless, unfeeling automatons,
undeserving of second judgment,
a second chance at soft meadow fields
and the light touch of the eastern sun.

I’d like you to know chickens.