For Tracey Robinson

Whatever
you do,
don’t grab at
the chicken.
Don’t go
for her. Don’t
move. Grab
a chunk of
corn-rich feed
with your fist.
Squat down.
Open your fist,
hold it out.
Stay still.
Breathe.
Don’t move.
Don’t move
even your eyes,
your gaze,
as the hen
squints at
you, shivers,
ruffles
a flurry
of feathers
in the leafstrewn
yard, flutters
closer, a rustle
of dry leaves,
a flinching,
a shudder
of fright,
of will,
intention.
Don’t grab
at her don’t
reach for
her don’t
move don’t
breathe.
Breathe.
Stay
still
squatting
until
she’s at
hand
in your
hand
eating out
of your hand
and your hand
surrounds
her, has
her.
She’s
come to
you, she
breathes
hard
in your hand.
You breathe,
you have
her.

© by Sandra Kohler.
Used with the author's permission.