Hen houses fill the meadow:

each a metal barrel dumped on end, 

lined into rows and deep columns.

Roosters stand atop the drums, their frames

shards of red and yellow,

or the luminous green of darkness.

There is only silence,

and the middle of their lives.

I am waiting like this too,

caught by the sun passing,

burning across the wild flowers,

blossoming among the milkweed 

and the sweet stinging nettle.