The White Hen walked over to us,

she fell over, spread her wings,

as we reached down to her,

I was heading for the house

to get the rifle, I couldn’t bear for her to suffer,

but her eyes widened, then closed.

She was dead.

We never named her, she was just the

White Hen, industrious, imperious, busy.

What do you feel for a hen?

We took her out to the deep woods,

gave her to the coyotes and foxes.

What do you feel for the White Hen?

On a farm, you measure your grief,

one spoonful at a time, or you

will soon enough choke on it.

I do not cry for a chicken,

but I thanked her, for her eggs

and great presence.

She was a good hen,

And we do miss her.