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The Pecking
In the yard's dust-bowl kingdom, hens
Scratch their ancient rhythms. Until
Blood springs – a single drop
Like a red asterisk in white feathers.
Then something older than bone
Switches on behind her eye. Machinery
Of beak and claw engages, pre-programmed,
As if the first raptor never died.
Her neck snakes forward, hooked weapon
Drilling deep, each strike
A vi...
Tuesday 4th March 2025 9:24 am
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