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dressed chicken
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"Chicken Prepared"
Along the sandstone run,
a scrub‑hen darts,
all bone‑light haste
and wind‑ruffled daring,
a creature that seems
to have invented
its own outline as it goes.
Down in the township,
its cousin waits
trussed for the counter,
plump with intention,
a body arranged for usefulness,
no mystery left to guard.
One wears the day
as a shifting garment,
feathers catching the sun
like small arguments
about what shape a life should take.
The other sits still,
a lesson in certainty,
rounded where the wild one narrows.
And so the paradox stands:
two forms from one lineage,
one built for vanishing into scrub‑shadow,
one shaped for the kitchen’s bright order—
each a quiet reminder
that a single lineage can wander
toward wildly different ends.
No moral to offer,
only a steady fact
that the world enjoys its little puzzles,
and we, passing through,
learn to watch them closely.
.
