the chickens that were not chickens
dragged themselves over the grass,
jerking on their vestigial legs,
twenty-some cotton loofahs trying somehow
to wipe up the green field. they were
man-made chickens. two thick
breasts welded to a bare-bones life
support system set to last thirty days at most—
so I can see it. what the fox saw, when he came
over the fence, all russet flash rising.

the first bird didn’t move, not even
when the fox made the impossible pretzel
twist of its neck; the second gave a single squawk
of resignation. I figure the fox had a real think then.
maybe he sat down on his haunches.
he was a fine hunter—his blacktip ears
did their dance under the moonlight
and the summer-blue Virginia sky alike
fair enough. but these chickens were just there
not moving. they were bright and white

and they knew it. even through the fog
of genetic hash they had been given
some deep part knew—knew still
what it was to have a fox among them
sitting on his haunches. who can say if their
chicken hearts withstood the fear-jolt of adrenalin
that came but their sad bodies could not use?
for his part the fox stopped being a fox,
transmuting into an axiom of Darwin’s god. he
slaughtered two dozen birds in a few minutes

streaking through the grass. it was like
when the Vikings first came up from the sea
into certain churches of coastal France
or Saxon England and found the locals praying
in the pews. there was a necessary curtain of blood.
he left a single survivor, dragging itself off
behind the barn. we say we are not sure why. but
I see him there, hunched over that last bird
tail down. coming back to himself. O.K. he says
O.K. yes. I am a fox. I am a fox with standards.