Backyard Chickens

Growing up, we had backyard chickens—

some roosters and some hens.

They foraged under the canopies

of guava, mango and orange trees,

among the ginger and turmeric patch.

When the hens clucked loudly,

it was a sign they were ready to lay eggs.

My parents prepared bamboo baskets,

and lined them with straws.

Each hen would lay one egg a day,

then sit to incubate them, patiently,

for three long weeks.

I waited for the appearance of the first chick.

Finally, the day came—

one by one, the eggs hatched.

Fuzzy chicks emerged,

filling the house with soft peeps.

It was such a joyous time.

I begged my mother for crushed corn,

to feed them, watching them peck.

I held them in my palms,

gently stroking their soft plumage.

Sometimes, I placed them on my head.

Vulnerable chicks attracted predators.

Stray dogs and hungry crows prowled,

and it was my job to protect.

Sometimes ants bit the chicks —

and I’d apply antiseptic around the beaks.

It was gloomy, when chicks disappeared.

Spring came, and brought sickness,

we buried the fallen under the lemon tree.

Where life blooms, death can't far behind.

It is stuff of nostalgia now, and

I remember my chicken in the backyard.