Watching my hens today,
at least the four that remain,

I thought about despite their wings
they are creatures of the earth.

Home for them is a structure
built of pine; their very own hobbit hole.

They touch solid ground far more
than they find themselves in the air.

Scratching the leaves away
from the soil, they unearth food.

This is their whole purpose
for being.

How beautiful that they love the earth
so much

they even coat their feathers
in her dust.

Perhaps it’s their magic spell
for remaining rooted

instead of using their wings that otherwise
mark them as kin

to the robin who just landed
at my feet.