Chicken Line-Up

Pavlova refused to be in a straight line. Queens often do.

Twelve hens if we count Pavlova, said Spike. Eleven brown plus one white.

Suzy coaxed gently. Soft push energy — not shove. One hen. Two. Three.

By six the line wobbled. By eight someone pecked. By ten Pavlova hopped onto the fence.

Fence is not the line, Suzy laughed. Come down for the count.

Spike waited. Thinking Cap habit: try again after fail. Eleven brown on dirt. Pavlova last. Twelve.

Twelve is a dozen, Spike told you. Farm folk like dozens for eggs and for hens.

Siren and Alarm the guinea fowl shrieked as if twelve were an emergency. It was not.

We counted bodies, not noise, Suzy said. Noise is free. Counts need looking.

Line up, count once, count again. That is how chickens become a true twelve.

Eleven brown. One white. Twelve true.