Ma Nan's Flock

We had all kinds of critter
on the farm,
but the chickens were Ma Nan’s.
She cared for them.
Grand Pa tended all the others.
Man Nan used t’ say,
Son while yore out there
a ridin yore chariot
listen for a hen t’ cackle.
See where she’s a nestin.
We need some eggs.
So I’d hop on the seat of
the old rusty cultivator ,
crack my whip,
and my team would spread their wings.
We’d head for the
Apache or Cheyenne,
Arapaho or Sioux,
for a pow wow.
And when a hen would
cackle,
I’d excuse myself
no matter if I was with
Geronimo or Sittin Bull,
and I’d high tail it to the sound
and watch for a hen
to come out of the rag weed.
I always found the nest
and I’d gather the eggs,
put em in the belly of
my long john top
and fetched ‘em t’ Ma Na like they was
pure Apache gold.

She knew the name
of every fowl in ‘er flock;
geese, guineas, chickens.
When she scattered scratch
every evening,
she knew if one was missin
and if it was broody
or some varmint had got it.

Once every couple a months,
she spread a special mornin feed
to snatch a rooster for
fried chicken Sunday.
She only killed the cocks.
Wrung their necks she did,
haranguing the whole time
they flopped on the ground,
“I caught ya didn’t I.
You know better than that.
Too many cocks in one hen house.
And just how long did ya
think you were gonna
get away with it?”

Then,
her words were always a
puzzlement.
Now,
I wonder how many times,
over the years,
she wrung the old man’s neck
for some
youthful indiscretion.