neruda's chickens

picture from one of my windows last night.

this morning woke up to a cold, gray, dingy January morning.
And this poem was inside my head. A friend once read it to me.
I suppose that means I was also thinking about that friend this morning too.


A Certain Weariness

I am weary of chickens:
no one knows what they are thinking,
and they look at us with dry eyes
and consider us unimportant...

Pablo Neruda