a dozen eggs

the chickens love to eat 
their own eggs. beaks dripping
with yolk. the sun, throws
here autumn tongue down.
you always tell me i should
not let them feast like this. 
you want the eggs harvested
in the woven basket by the door.
washed in the sink until they are
smooth as polished stones. the chickens 
are not wise creatures. they pluck
what they must from the tall grass
around the yard. a grub. a worm.
a frog. i learn their voices. the youngest ones
who have yet to start laying 
speak with a chattering softness
that the older ones do not have. 
what shape does their own yolk
make in their mouths? does it sound
like a return or a swelling? 
sometimes we will find eggs hidden 
throughout the yard. a cluster beneath
the sycamore. a pile in the hay hutch. 
when they are through, scattered shells
lay all broken window in the dirt. 
i support their strange celebration.
a feast of the body taking back her suns. 
we hardly ever collect a dozen eggs. 
old cartons half-mouthed in the windowsill. 
i rake their coop. they peer at me, their intruder. 
the rooster, with his eyes like dream doors,
watches over the flock.