Change in the Neighborhood: The Chickens

Our Neighborhood isn't the same.
(Neither is yours, by the way.)
Maybe the neighborhood never was the same,
but we caused this particular change:
We put the pullets out in their coop in the meadow.
I don't know who noticed.
A wary cricket? Quiet watchers in th woods?
Crows, of course, were the first to comment.
The early reviews were raucous, scornful, mirthful
--You know crow.

We have seen a grazing deer, overcome by curiosity,
approach the coop, lower her nose to the ground,
breathe in questions,
snort
shake her head and back up fast, nose still on the ground;
go back to pinking the field and then, draw by unknowing,
repeat her mowing do-si-do.
We held our breath against the window until we had to laugh.

But it's the owls I want to talk about.
Ever since the little chickens arrived,
there have been choirs of owls every night.
Choirs? they sing. Conclaves? they discuss.
A Congress of owls? they declare.
Back and forth, up and down in swoops of sound
and harsh cruel ripping noises,
guttural gurgles usually ending with the martyred
"Who cooks? Who cooks for you?" of the barred owl.

These conversations begin anytime after 3;
they can last, on and off,until break of day,
first on one side of the house, then another.
They wake us up, keep us awake.
They threaten our little flock in the meadow.
They threaten, at least, the little flock in my head.
This is not the ususal cool melody of the local owls.

What do they need?
Theories about how to manipulate the latch on the coop?
The sudden presence of these optimistic, improbable young chckens,
The philosophy of it?
Maybe they debate the chance of the fox or the darkness of the bear.

But I have been in the woods at dusk
in the fall, after wood cutting,
the silence of the whole forest vividly rejoicing
that I had turned the chainsaw off,
when I heard a brief, strangled squeal, looked up:
and there was an owl gliding through the clearing,
a red squirrel in his beak.

The cries this week have come from that part of the owl:
The chicken includes that, too: the want of the owl.
Someone who goes back a good way around here once told me,
"the original people said
if you hear an owl in the daytime, it means somebody died."
I don't like superstitions -- in fact, I'm superstitious about them.
I don't like how many times that one has proven true.
I wonder if it is coincidence, heightened awareness?
Should I just be glad I can still hear the owl?

We don't disagree with the owls.
We likewise discuss the chickens,
and the trim of their coop
and how tight the latch is.
We also watch them grow larger and plumper.

We are hungry too.

Stephen Philbrick

Biography

Stephen Philbrick is a poet and minister of the West Cummington Congregational Church. He is a member of the “Church Hill Poets” and has written three books of poetry entitled, Three, No Goodbye and Up to the Elbow. Steve is also a member of the Woodlands Cooperative and recently published a book with his son Frank entitled, The Backyard Lumberjack: The Ultimate Guide to Felling, Bucking, Splitting and Stacking. Steve and his wife Connie own land in Windsor, Massachusetts.

Copyright This material is copyrighted by Stephen Philbrick.