Cuneiform Tracks, originally uploaded by raventrickster.

The only tracks in this morning’s snow
leading through the wet overnight inch
were thin bicycle tires, leading to
and then away from the drive-through ATM.
No wide tires, no cars, just pen strokes;
this city keeps me high on its ambition.

Returning home, my yard blanketed dirty white,
I found fresh tracks in the snow.
Arrows pointing every which way,
vested with a strange, impentetrable logic
beyond my grasp. The chickens
were writing a crude, fowl cuneiform
in the white blanket of my lawn.

Their feet scrawled poetic lines
the length of the fence,
stanzas all around the coop,
and a quick haiku on the windowsill.
Masters of alliteration they might be,
But I suspect that this poetry, like the best of poetry,
was an accident, because those who know them can tell you
that chickens live in prose.