Chicken Spending Her Time with Me
A chicken is not a poultice
even though I hug one to my chest.
She followed me around all Summer
pressing lawn under her scratchy toes.
The scent of grass goes along with her,
and sunlit dust baths where I noticed
the hawk watching me impatient since
I overstayed my farming chores.
A chicken knows outdoors the dust
can be a pollen and feathers a flower
and wings the paddles that push us through time.
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