aubade with the chickens

i ask the chickens what love means 
to them. they respond with their 
round little curious eyes. i remember
when they fit in my hand. we kept the chicks
in the little dog crate upstairs while
they grew. the rooster, now mighty 
& spurred, was always the first to try &
escape. he'd run around the room
tearing papers. i think he was just looking
for the sun. it was april by the time
we got everyone outside. the fresh coup
like a palace. they told each other 
stories from the roost at night like, "have you seen
the stars eat each other?" & 
"do you believe in winter?" we have
not lost one yet. there have been hawks 
& cats & snakes still all of them remain.
i have come to learn the meanings
of some of their sounds. "come on" &
"there is something delicious" & "please stay"
& "be careful." i make the vocalization
back to the birds. they look at me like
"you do not know what you are saying."
this is true. i come asking about love
because i feel a great & growing lack 
around me. surely the chickens must know
something  i do not. about the soil.
the worms. the flavor of dusk. 
they do not respond. instead, they feast
on herb-smelling crumbles. sip fresh water.
shove each other like brothers. lay their eggs
in the pine chips. a cluster of planets.
yolks, their gift-wrapped light.