Somewhere between a chicken and an angel,
genetically she’d never been in sync –
had she dropped into this being via eggshell –
or from some celestial eye in a blink?
The odd celestial eye, that is, afflicted with a stye.
She doesn’t know. No record of her birth.
She sports innumerable wings. None help her fly.
Her feathers keep her warm. But life on Earth,
she’s learned, is not particularly more ridiculous
for creatures without evidence of purpose
than it is for more presumably felicitous
inhabitants like us who polish up our surface
thinking that’s how to proclaim what we’re about.
AngelChicken has accepted she’s a blip,
no more impossible than we, she has no doubt.
Like Plato made of play-dough. Or a pancake flip.