Chickens

 

There’s something somehow cozy
In a yard where chickens roam-
Something ‘bout the gentle clucking
Makes a cabin whisper “home.”
 
There’s a smile always shows itself
When there upon the lawn,
There’s a hen a scratching-scratching
In the freshness of the dawn.
 
‘Tis in the rustling feathers
And the rare, belligerent squawk
One sees the simple pleasures
Of a grub beneath a rock.
 
And when the sun starts setting
And the chickens go to nest,
One never fails to feel ‘tis home,
And know one has been blessed.