I miss my friendliest of hens.

Cadillac, you refuse your perch

Cadillac, our oldest hen, last of six siblings we first warmed, watered and fed, you slid under a waxy cultivar and stayed there not to experience this season’s molt. You were the majestic one, grander than other birds, and heavy and perfect in your stillness, one leg dressed in crimson leaves, another stiffly placed under your breast. Hey, Cadillac, why have you refused your perch during these evenings of cyclic change? For last night was not the first, cold, twelve hours that you did not climb to survival with your flock. Had I brought you in and held you, might you have chosen another season?