Why Young Chicks Cross the Road on a Snowy Evening

The rooster's calling, hear him crow,
the farmer's in the barnyard, tho.
He will not see me cross the street—
loose chicklet running to and fro.

The broody hens are saccharine sweet,
content to keep their breasts and feet
inside the coop, behind the wire,
surrounded by the corn and wheat.

But I am young and filled with fire—
a pullet cheeping with desire.
The only other sound's the beep
of blaring horn and screeching tire.

The road is scary, stark and steep—
but I've a cock I've yet to meet
and eggs to lay before I sleep
and eggs to lay before I sleep.

© Laura Heidy