bantam rooster, is the only one
in the hen pen.
Most of the old hens
are four times his size.
He lives to defend and fight.
When I bring a saucepan full
of chicken feed
he attacks in a red blaze.
I dump the food quick
for the hens, turn the rear of the pan
towards him as a shield: he bounces
off the thing like a dragonfly
or a hummingbird,
but when I close the pen
and look at the pan
his beak has left a scar
on the copper bottom.
This morning, Alpha's head and tail
were mangled, he was blind and covered
in blood, but still he stood.
His crow was silent: he had fought something
bigger and stronger than himself,
in the night. The oblivious hens
strut back and forth, nobody
else was touched.
Now we keep him
alone in the smaller chick hatch coop,
with some fresh grubs and feed
and torn figs. We wash his injuries in a pool
and leave him with fresh water.
Chickens don't like to move
in the dark, and he is blind.
His tongue is swollen in his mouth
from the wounds of his battle,
but his tough little feet
are strong and sure,
gripping the edge of his dish.
His pride is quieter than his crow
but his pride is not broken.
