The chickens are circling
and blotting out the day.
The sun is bright,
but the chickens are in the way.
Yes, the sky is dark with chickens,
dense with them.
They turn and then they turn again.
These are the chickens you let loose
one at a time and small—
Now they have
come home to roost
—all the same kind
at the same speed.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem