IN MUD THE MARKS REVEAL
another story:
a stark feather mingled in
torn leaves covering the old stain
and the shifty rooster still here
separates seed from rock, tick
from dirt, green from spent, his crown
of red trembles
one foot to the other,
a hard stone of eye on fire
for whatever lies in wait
believing each noise
as hostile, as downfall,
he pushes to the fore
cocksure the rest will follow,
inevitable, his ruff
unfurled by mere wind,
the glisten of hook-claw
as he erects himself
between the woman
and her hens, the writer
and the written,
each ruin and again.
