Hens

Beside the horse troughs, General Grant

swaggered and foraged in the dry manure,

that winter we had twenty-seven hens

graced with white feathers and names of heroes.

Cock of the walk, he took the choicest fodder,

and he was totem, stud and constable

until his comb and spurs were frozen, bled,

and then the hens, quite calmly, picked him dead.