Happy Hour

Chickens sprawl under the peach tree
panting;
dig shallow holes in the compost and roll,
coating their feathers in a film of dust.

When the sharp edged shadows blur
and fade into evening,
they will shake off their feathers,
scratch the ground,
and sink their beaks
into watermelon rinds;
crunchy, cooling
blushing pale
— chicken rosé.

Written using Margo’s summer prompt.

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4 thoughts on “Happy Hour

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