The sulky gradual querulous content
Of chickens puffed and blinky in the sun,
Swelling into their scooped holes, one by one,
Blundering a grieved squawk to resent
Trespass or dispute of tenement;
Then, grieved or peeved, the argument grudgingly done,
Dozing down to a vast oblivion.
Though irritations after the event
Continue to emerge, their sounds are smothered
In the baked somnolence, the only intrusion
That of a chick who, set on being mothered,
Succeeds in making an ecstasy of confusion:
But otherwise the world is a drone of dust
Where bills open to sigh as softly they must.