Gathering Eggs

They’d flap up, not far or high, just from roosts
to rafters when we opened the henhouse door.
The light swirled back a squalling snowstorm,
gold and white, stirred up from droppings and dust

they lived among. After we’d robbed and left
their nests, soft filth again would settle over
them, consolingly, in the dark. Confused in the glare,
I watched their flomps and scurries; indignant wing-shift,

angry beaks (I cowered), the cold white china
egg slipped in one box, Maw Maw’s sure hands picking
warm brown eggs for my basket. The black rat snake
visited someone else’s yard—their neighbor

who didn’t farm, but kept some chickens on the side
and worked days at the mill. At home, Granddaddy
would have grabbed his hoe and been done with it.
I wouldn’t have seen that double sway, the bird’s

long neck repeating the snake as it lifted in
lazy waves, against gravity—its glacial patience
and the crowd of gawkers too entranced
themselves to save the old man’s yellow hen.

Before too much blame, remember, nobody
loves chickens. At the right time, anyone—
the old man—will pull his own tricks and snatch a hen.
Anyone. Clear as morning I see Granddaddy

pinning the red pullet while Maw Maw hoists
the axe and I stand back, then clap and laugh
at the thing racing headless between life and death,
only motion holding it upright above the dust.

*Susan Settlemyre Williams grew up in North Carolina and has lived in Richmond, VA for nearly 37 years.) Her poems have appeared in Shenandoah, storySouth, Diner (co-winner of its 2006 poetry contest), River City, Barrow Street, The Cream City Review, and various other journals. Her full-length manuscript has been a finalist in several book competitions. She is a retired lawyer, with an MFA degree from Virginia Commonwealth University.