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