One Saturday afternoon in the shoulder
season between calving and haying

I pick up one of our grandmother’s Leghorns,
sit on the porch steps and hold the chicken
between my legs, upside down. It stares up at me.

I pass my hand back and forth, back and forth until
its angry eyes become soft, its body limp.
I place the chicken on the ground on its back,

sightless, its gaze upward to the summer sky.
My brother does the same. One after another
until there are 45 white hillocks in the yard,

feathers stirring gently in the breeze
and two ranch kids; chicken gods in dirty jeans.
We clap our hands.

The chickens right themselves, return
to pecking dirt and one another.
As if we had not altered time.
As if we had not raised them from the dead.

February 15, 2025