If Fat Head
the Rooster
hadn't met
an untimely
and unsavory
demise
by drowning
in the stock tank

(Imagine the evil bird's surprise,
perched up there like he owned
the whole damned barnyard,
admiring his cocky reflection in the clear,
cool water in between
scouting out
with his hard beady eyes
the next innocent to victimize.
After all of that chasing and
pecking at the kids,
surprise commando attacks,
rocket blasting in full feathered
wing-beating, red-combed,
firecracker feathered wrath
out from behind the manure pile--
I'm going to chalk his bitter end
up to chicken karma,
or fate, or an example of the
not oft-enough-seen justice of the universe
or something just plain well-deserved.),

then this tenacious
heeler puppy
would not
be emerging
from her tour
of the hen house

alive.