Oh, why should a hen <br />have been run over <br />on West 4th Street <br />in the middle of summer? <br /> <br />She was a white hen <br />--red-and-white now, of course. <br />How did she get there? <br />Where was she going? <br /> <br />Her wing feathers spread <br />flat, flat in the tar, <br />all dirtied, and thin <br />as tissue paper. <br /> <br />A pigeon, yes, <br />or an English sparrow, <br />might meet such a fate, <br />but not that poor fowl. <br /> <br />Just now I went back <br />to look again. <br />I hadn't dreamed it: <br />there is a hen <br /> <br />turned into a quaint <br />old country saying <br />scribbled in chalk <br />(except for the beak).<br /><br />Elizabeth Bishop<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/trouv-e/
