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...

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