Adrift, unpinned, their lost
Feathers settle at my feet.
Heads cocked and clucking, 
The chickens follow me,
Listening to my prayers,
Which are plans for the garden —
Fig trees, blueberries, a bridge
Across a pond crackling 
With flame-bright fish.
I can’t abide angels, overrated
Guardians of no one.
I believe in these earthly
Murmurers patrolling
My yard in plain attire,
Keeping their wings to
Themselves, flying only
In emergencies, gracelessly
And close to the ground —
Where emergencies occur.