Emily's last poem for poetry month

I am again abusing honoring my namesake, Emily Dickinson. I found her poem about a thing with feathers of particular interest.

Chickens are things with feathers

that run around the pen

and squawk a noise without a tune

never making sense

 

and sweetest is the day when I

catch one all unaware.

I’ll grab her leg and run away

to stash her in my lair.

 

I know most chickens don't like dogs

but I can be her friend

if only she’ll excuse the teeth

that make her feathers shred.

 

I don't care what it is as long as I can shred it.