The hens in the dusty twilight of the chicken coop
sing in strange low voices, not the squawking
we think we know, for that is what they do
when we are near. Weird sisters these, all white
the dance they do while the woman sleeps.
Her own small egg, perhaps her last, travels
the dark to its inland sea. Heads swaying from
side to side, the hens all lift one foot, pause,
before they set it down as if it were the first
time they touched the ground, here only for one night,
so white, they could have fallen from the moon.
The woman sinks into feathers, into her own
dark dreams. That part of her that walks in sleep
and won’t remember in the sun’s first light
wonders at the voices her body moves toward,
the hens singing their oldest song
while strings of moonstones
grow warm inside them.