your mother's chickens
that bawk; that shamelessly take her food
that she soothes; then fly away
full of her kindness, flightless and weighed down
out of the nest she built with her own jaws,
clumsily plunking to the ground.

your mother's children
that walk, that bawk; that she'll lose too
snapping their beaks, using their words as weapons
like hatchets they never sharpen
left inaudible but volatile,
and impatiently toss away
aimless, 'til their throats are sore
final squawks spent in defiance,
axes ricocheting like bullets
back in their mouths.

she can't help but smile at the
thought- there will be no
flying south,
not this winter-
not ever.