PLUNDER

The chickens are out. 

After a long winter of confinement 

They explore the land like Vikings, 

Digging, plundering, laying waste to carefully applied sod. 

The parade of ruddy bodies 

Fat and feathered, wobble awkwardly after their leader 

The one who chases me with neck outstretched -

Thinks I'm a wayward hen.

The treasure hunt becomes more complicated. 

No more neat rows of smooth, brown gems in boxes. 

The world is their nesting box 

And now, I am the Viking.

I hunch down with my rough-hewn sack,

My spade a weapon to wrestle tufts of crabgrass

And thick weeds which hide 

The precious bounty from my pillaging.