You’ve killed my chickens,
Reynard.
Before the light of day
you slyly ambled into their house
and stole their lives away.
My dutiful, fat brown hens
that wandered free all ways,
their necks half chewed
and feathers spread
where on the ground they lay.
Reynard, you are beautiful,
but I promise you one day
I’ll wear your coat
across my back —
It’s a sorry game we play.
Sally Plumb
