At the top of tomorrow awaits the old, red hen resting quietly a top her rickety, old coup,

And when I visited her, that warm, Autumn morning

When the sky was still dusty with stars, and the peachy glow of the sun was just starting to appear over the horizon

I stroked her head as gentle as a lamb

She looked at me, eyes heavy with tired and I said,

“Take your time getting to where you’re going. Ain’t no rush. You’re safe here.”

As delicate as an angel I made sure to be, I scooped her into my arms, her body lighter than the very feathers that decorated her.

She nuzzled into my neck, and as I sat with her underneath The Old Willow Tree

She looked at me one final time as I did her.

I felt what little weight she bestowed in my arms dwindled as she took her final breath: a sigh of relief. 

The next Spring, after I buried her underneath that very spot, it had been the first time in decades, as Pa proclaimed at the sheer sight of it, that The Old Willow Tree was in bloom. 

Next to her Rickety Old Coup.