When home,

they are a flurry of mountains to climb.

The ridges in the gravel drive grow deep

from the back and forth. 

The washing machine is a constant song.

Ice slips and sounds atop the floor from the freezer across the house.

Granola bar wrappers, socks, and muddied shoes land where they are tossed;

there is more purpose everywhere else than to direct their order here.

I try to catch them, but I can’t.

Their teenage bodies slip through my fingers;

water moving over, around, and between me: 

I am a collection of rocks and pebbles, stilled in the very river

they are intent on casting for fish.

And so, I let the water find me smoothed, 

and crouching down for the chickens

in the yard; 

they are stuck outside their pen, befogged,

the wind and whirlwind around us having closed the door.

They huddle in a corner darkened with sundown, and they are warm 

in spite of night’s conviction. 

Somewhere else, the teens are getting ice cream;

they are laughing over sodas at the drive through;

they are fixing their hair in windows and high-fiving.

They are cruising Main.

And I am here, carrying chickens.

One by one, around the barn and into the coop,

their legs straighten like ballerinas, giving themselves

to careful hands and soothing speech.

They are people-shy, this flock of chickens.

I worried they would evade me in the dark–

a flutter of feathers finding everywhere else beyond me 

to flee.

But they let me hold them, all of them did.

Before the chain of headlights came down the driveway, music blasting, 

changing voices singing,

before I became a rock under water again, 

my fingers felt the silken down of tailleur pausing to watch me 

through their deposit into the garrisoned coop; 

the gift of their deliverance to safety 

theirs to grant, 

and given to me.