Night walking

by Maggie Wallis

She’s perched in the rosemary again.
I crouch down, lift her frame,    
right hand eased
beneath her downy breast.

As I crunch a track across the snow
she makes a sound - that low
contented sound of hens
and I tuck her in, closer.

With a hollow call
and wings outspread,
she settles in the darkened shed.
Hens murmur, return to sleep.

So many miles we have hiked
this same journey every night.
I and a white hen
tramping over moonlit snow.