Hen Song
Sporadically, one of the hens erupts in a series of creaking, cawing, clarion hoots for no apparent reason and if I am not alone in the observance of this oblation I am often asked—why is this happening? There is the general assumption that something is wrong. An injured hen? A predator in the coop? I too once shared this concern. In the early years I would rush out to the run only to find a perfectly contented hen eyeing me sturdily from her clawed up earth. We hear this knell and toll right through the walls of the house, where I, in deep penance, recall the breaking, cooking, and eating of the weakest, thinnest eggs, their yolks so yellow, so uniformly pale, laid forever under roof, no sky, no earth to scratch, no tip of beak, no feathers ever rustled by the breeze, no nearby home, no people living, no children daily growing, not a soul listening, no ready ears to receive it, and so— no wild music, no reason for singing.