Mother Nature

They begin so innocently, all yellow fluff and sweet peeping.
Beaks and claws are not so apparent in the
incubator, the shelter of baby chicks.
A new batch arrives; it contains a deformed baby-I call him
"Brokeneck" because of his awkward, angled neck. I think he’s cute.
The other chicks don’t seem to mind.
They live their happy little existence, his
differences unmarked, all of them clamoring for food and water.
I don’t understand nature very well.

Time to introduce the latest batch to the coop comes quickly.
Feathers fly amidst the straw: bits of offerings too often
cling to the bottom of my shoes, waiting to take vengeance for
collected eggs and backyard barbecues-someone’s got to be the main attraction.
I wonder how my special chick will fare in his new environs.

Soon enough, I discover the true nature of things.
One day, when the dog is sniffing around, hoping
to catch himself a fat one,
I see the difference has been discovered.
Pecking order-beady eyes, cocked and loaded,
ready to eradicate differences-is a reality, a nature thing.
I’m angry to discover that my poor little broke neck has been pecked to death,
and left to rot in ignominious fashion as ants and other insects do their job.
His little eyes bulge and the feathers on his neck are bedragled-
a sorry indictment of the cruelty of nature.
The head biddy trains her beady eyes on me, but I’m not afraid of her.
I spread out some feed, then launch her into the air as the toe of my
muddy hiking boot connects with her feathers and fluff.
She squawks indignantly, flutters about in a furied flurry of feathers,
then returns to her perch, ready to re-establish her dominance.
I am disgusted with the cruelty of survival-conformity, sameness required.
I hate chickens.