For the chick on the hillside
Contour feathers were growing over the stardust down of the chick, tiny on the hillside copying the hen, digging. Woken to the world, it was exact same pale gold as its mother's tail, the tips of her wings. They moved together; but one was assured and sharp, the other a sweet disciple. From this distance, nothing seemed more precious than that palm-sized soul, delicate of the earth, imitating to live. I whispered over and over: protection for this one. And maybe, being a passing stranger, my prayer was small. But maybe it could grow strong wings too, long and waterproof, over my tufted feather-words. LJ Ireton, 2024