Hatchery
Chicks
by Jennifer Floyd
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Live
treasure waits
in the small, cardboard box
behind the Post Office counter
small, shrill noises keening
"Here they are," the lady says
as the box is passed
to my anxious hands.
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The
voices’ strident throb
calms as I carefully sit
box balanced on my lap
in the warmth of my parents’ car
and I look longingly
through the air-holes
tantalizing glimpses
of the baby chicks within.
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Once
home, the staples pulled,
I lift the lid and look
at the moving mosaic revealed
bunches of buttercup fluff
caramel striped, velvet black,
maple red and speckled spots,
full of bright eyes and noisy protest.
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One
by one, I scoop them up
gently tilting beaks in water bowl,
and place them under the warm glow
of the brooder lamp
until the old box is empty
like the eggshells so recently abandoned
and I watch, chin on hands
while the busy murmurs merge
with sleepy sounds of content.
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