First, resist the urge for light.

Step from memory across the grass
to the henhouse where the girls sleep
on their perches as if they’ve downed
a few strawberry margaritas.

Tiptoe as you move close to a snoring hen.
Pin her wings gently to her sides,
picking up her fluffy self that weighs
next to nothing, as you shift
her from one perch to another.

Chickens can’t see in the dark.

You’ve been taught to fear what you can’t see,
but darkness doesn’t always mean danger.

Look up—stars populate
the heavens, even when they seem absent.
Meteors streak the night with their
momentary brilliance.

Once relocated, a sleepy hen might squawk
but will soon settle into her new spot.
Before the next sundown she will
return to her new indentation, one
she will recognize by smell, by feel,

settling into the imprint that is hers
where, before rising, she will nest
a pearlescent oval gift for you,
slick and gleaming,
radiant in this new day.