THIS:
is why the chicken crossed the road.
Only, it wasn’t a chicken,
maybe a quail, or a ruffed grouse,
the state bird of all things
strutting his stuff in the middle there.
Staring back at me,
I, as unfamiliar with the animal
as I
am with the state of affairs
concerning my own
preening feathers.
Calling out,
these great and unsearchable
things I do not know.
Hazy, like a mirage,
is an answer,
that He will bring me back
from captivity,
gathering, and restoring fortunes.
You may not see it,
I know, yet,
even I barely have an inkling.
Arms and hearts
making a highway.
Crooked is now straight,
mountains and hills brought low,
rough places made smooth.
Thank you, Lord, for hindsight.
Let my belly do the talking.
I’m hungry.
There’s chicken for dinner.