These Are My JOTtings, Part #2

The Faithful Hen

She takes her food from my own hand.
Her gentle pecks don't hurt.
Soft henish sounds I understand.
No need my eyes avert.

For five-plus years she's been a pet,
outlasting all the rest.
She shows no signs of slowing, yet,
withstanding every test.

For twice a fox has come and gone,
a-feasting on the flock
with gold ones left upon the lawn,
and this one left in shock.

She showed me how she stayed alive.
In the shadows, she did hide
by salt and pepper plumes to thrive,
the menace to abide.

I moved her coop quite near our house.
The rain from eaves still dance.
For days she dared not to espouse
the place of fearish glance.

For nights she found salvation's perch,
and dared not to go home.
By gentle care to roost, I urged.
I carried her to home.

She looks each day to find her friend,
the big one, not like her,
who makes her henish sounds to mend,
emotions' mollified myrrh.

The trips away are shortened oft,
not just by viral curse.
When Sun goes down, I bar her loft,
preventing something worse.

I did not know a friend could be
an animal so fowl,
but cherish every day her see,
and when she's gone to howl.

Is this my hand, that writes it so?
I really could not guess,
that words I speak but do not know
could one so different bless.

by Jay O'Toole
on July 1st, 2020