You were not our first hen,
but you were
our oldest lady.
One of the girls.

Your eggs
they were not the biggest
Indeed, they were the smallest
of the small.
Perfect blue,
with the creamiest
tastiest eggs of any.

You may not have been
the smartest chicken in the coop.
And you used to make an awful
racket in the morning.
But we loved you still.

Your soft, feathery wig
made your character.
Your feathers were proper
dappled browns
and mousey greys.

You will always be
Our Wiggy.



Originally published at shepline: the journal. You can comment here or there.