Weekend warriors were out having fun.
Bantams collided in midair with broilers,
Careening off one another,
Messerschmitts and Spitfires crashing into tin,
Piling up thick against the wall of their coop.
At dawn, walking out to survey the damage, I see red.
I spy broken birds; my forehead furrows.
I scoop red earth, slinging it at the scarlet sky.
My arms extending.
My fists clenching, clutching clay,
Chicken blood dripping from my fingers.
Next morning the rag reports:
“Eight Thousand Chickens Destroyed
In Cadaverous County.”