Oh, why should a hen
have been run over
on West 4th Street
in the middle of summer?
She was a white hen
—red—and—white now, of course.
How did she get there?
Where was she going?
Her wing feathers spread
flat, flat in the tar,
all dirtied, and thin
as tissue paper.
A pigeon, yes,
or an English sparrow,
might meet such a fate,
but not that poor fowl.
Just now I went back
to look again.
I hadn’t dreamed it:
there is a hen
turned into a quaint
old country saying
scribbled in chalk
(except for the beak).
Otras obras de Elizabeth Bishop...