Portrait of Mourning in the Coop
The hens coo softly,
low in their throats
like your quiet sobs
in the dormitory when
you first learned your
grandfather died.
They know too: death
is quick on sunny days
whether foraging worms
or reading in lawn chairs.
Three hawks who’d
been stalking the flock
patiently for weeks—
an untended moment,
all our guards down.
Imagine their alarm,
duck and cover, sisters
racing under pines,
into their shed, through
low arbor vitae and
talons quietly tearing
chests, wings, throats
—downy underfeathers
floating in chill air.
It is silent when we
head to collect eggs
that were not laid, see
white, black, brown
feathers littering the yard,
carcasses discarded
unceremoniously. It is
silent like the dark ride
to the airport for your
solo flight to his memorial.
Silence until the two hens
coo in the coop, comforting
each other in a corner,
a dirge for their sisters.
They know too: death
is quick to leave silence,
proprioception wheeling,
readjusting to absence—
sadness low in the throat
slow to escape.