by Devon Balwit
Jubilation all around at the first eggs laid
by our spurious rooster, now no longer in danger
of a one-way trip to the countryside.
My husband rousts me in slippered feet
to peer between the fence slats to where she broods,
secretive, atop the tarped mower.
Twelve eggs are sufficient repayment
for five months of cracked corn and repatriation
each time she misled the flock into hostile territory.
How quickly I edit everything I assumed
about hens, just as I did with my boxer daughter,
pugnacity the right of any Boadicean warrior queen.
About the Author:
When not making art, Devon Balwit walks in all weather and edits for Asimov and Stripe Press and Asterisk and Works in Progress Magazine. For more of her work, visit: https://pelapdx.wixsite.com/devonbalwitpoet