ALPHA

Alpha, our little feather footed

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.