Here at dusk, when light dims to pulse Hints the silence threaded with cosmic calls, The chickens gather on sand-dusted earth, Heads held high, beaks agape for communion.

With world-weary voices thin as gauze, They sing of sun-split mornings, Windows in the coop catching star-glints or Destruction delighted by fox moons.

Each cluck a tremble in twilight air, pitched against comforting constellations’ sway, They hymn their lineage—bolt and feather, Universal tremors transforming pecked gravel into stories untold in any barnyard log.

The wind flows through, archival, persistent, Cacophonic carrier of messages older than each egg.

Sparrow's Song Ember's Lull Estrella Gaia