Cluck

The Chicken House at Night

A shiny, black beetle with a curved horn

like a trumpet stands on a post, and the air—

full of summer and dark—wraps sentinel corn

in a tailored cloak, dress-grade and uniform.

Crepe myrtle limbs secure far boundary lines,

and pink blooms flare under the vigilant stare

of the moon.  Heavy toads parade from ivy vines,

patrolling grassy fields, vast beneath the pines.

The chicken house cloisters a dozen red hens,

sleeping heads bowed, bony feet tucked,

but one red hen roams the grounds, extends

her wings, a night-yard queen—she clucks.