GYPSY ARRESTED FOR
TELLING THE TRUTH
Sometimes I tell myself stories, and
it can get like that. The cool, beige air,
I can recall, over 1970's Pennsylvania
hills, and the numerous, two-level
chicken-coops I always be seeing.
White and wavy, no longer straight,
as the land beneath them, over the
years, had slowly shifted. But the
wood held firm and then it took for
itself the shape of the groundswell.
The same wave and twist. It's still
like that today, on those I see.
-
Like fingernails on a finger's tip,
some of them are yet around, clinging
in a quiet desperation to the slowly
changing ground. No more local
chickens though - except for those
with the driveway or barnyard sales.
The large-volume egg coops are now
all quiet and gone.
-
Candling is an art long gone : it was
a means of checking a chicken egg. I
never understood it much, even as it
was done. Just another tom-fool item
on some checklist and inventory: hen
and egg, numbers of chickens, now
many to hatch? The process seemed
always to reach its own ends : like
a gypsy, arrested for telling
the truth.
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