The story of six guineas
The story of six guineas
I bought them when they were chicks.
I imagined they would grow up
and I would turn them out on ninety acres
to be watchdogs with an instinct, a poetry
of sounds, warning every movement around them.
I repaired the smoke house in spite of the tricks
that kept showing up,
cracks in the flooor big enough for snake takers,
hawks resting in the tall oak from which to see
and owls at night. I could hear them.
When they were grown, but tame.
They had no instinct to roost in trees
but huddled on the ground not in the house at night.
The two smaller hens were gone the next morning
and the four rooster did not appear to mourn them.
After another night two roosters were gone, the same
way as the others, but the last two went in. I locked these
in and they hid behind a sheet of plywood out of sight.
The next morning
I fed and watered them and locked the door for them.
That night I only found four legs behind the
closed door and four or five feathers.
