Click Page 40

Poetry of Issue #7        Page 40


When Chuck was just a little tyke he noticed his pappy's chickens could fly only short distances and not all that high. He never saw a flock aiming for a cloud or gliding across the face of the moon so he set out to change all that because he was always one to see potential everywhere in everything so he caught a chicken and tossed it like a medicine ball into the upwind and oh, it took off alright but only long enough to land on the roof of the outhouse next to the coop and then land on his head where it left an egg in one of those gorgeous waves he'd become known for, but this flight pattern remained a puzzle until one night all hell broke loose with a fox and a weasel and this rabid raccoon in the chicken yard and it was like O'Hare out there, chickens lifting off right and left, going in every direction mind you, flapping away, flying if you could call it that, higher and higher over housetops, radio towers, even the giant spruce out on Highway 81 folks drove hundreds of miles to park under and look up through, now to see eggs, eggs descending like blitz bombs over anyone just out for a stroll, what was to become among them the most luxurious heads of hair ever seen on a throng and it wasn't even the weekend.

  Charles Springer