The chickens have a meanness I cannot quell
though I thunder from the kitchen window, a god
of rice and oats. No matter how much I scatter
in the cardinal directions, there is bullying,
the Silver Laced Wyandottes the worst despite their name.
I would drown their wickedness if I could open
the floodgates, but I hate the victims just as much
for taking the abuse. They have all they need for parity
along with an urge to bloody. The smallest fought the flock
and won, but only once. Perhaps she has no stomach
for a daily reassertion of dominance. Now she gleans
at the margins and rebuffs all intervention. What good is it
to look down on the world if I cannot change it?
Indeed, creation seems to flee my very shadow.
Devon Balwit, author of Dog-Walking in the Shadow of Pyongyang, lives in Portland, Ore.
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