Thunder Was Born in the Hen Yard

THE wild had come up close to the chicken pens;
Five yards from the handsome heavy hens,
Another mother in feathers, built like a blade,
brooded her wild eggs, quiet and unafraid.
The mother partridge held her trim head taut,
Pressed her slender loveliness down hot
On her treasures, sat, and gently eyed
The frowzy mothers cackling at her side.

The hens knew this was something strange and rare;
They walked cautious by the brooder there;
Yet they knew also, by some dim folk sense,
She meant well and would give them no offense.
Somehow they knew this slim and soundless thing
Had something in common with them, under her wing,
So they were calm and left the partridge so,
Only they always passed her on tiptoe.

Even the children found her, but she gazed
So quiet on them, with her small head raised,
They left her in peace, after they stared and stood,
Lapped round with the glasslike strength of motherhood.
And when the mowing machine cut down the high
Grass two feet away, she did not fly;
She bravely bore the horror of great sound
With her eyes still meek but very round.

It happened all too quick for the hens to see —
Nine downy little thunderbolts went free
One after one, and then were gone for good,
And the mother melted away into the wood.
When the children came, they found not a feather
Where love had held the wild and tame together;
The chicks had slipped away like a dream’s slim things
To be wild and wear the thunder in their wings.