The sun is a baby chick
hatched each morning,
waddling around sky pasture,
hopeful and uncertain.
It flops towards the day’s mesa,
staggering, then snoring.
But if it’s head’s too bright,
it’s feathers too uniform
or it’s markings too white,
the high-speed dusk grinder
will mince his cockerel face,
man-made gasses, asphyxiate.
As he tumbles towards twilight,
cervical dislocation, suffocation,
or electrocution will be induced.
Whatever seems right
to bring about the blackness
of his first and final night.
©2023 | K.F. Hartless
Artwork: Easter Chick Acrylic on canvas






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