This Morning (compost poem)

Zhava knows the rule. She is not allowed
into the chicken coop.

Not that, regal coursing hound, of course
she would accost a chicken; she just
wants their compost. Badly, like an animal
descended boldly from primordial prick-eared,
sickle-tailed garbage scavengers---

This morning, I let her out into the yard,
but stayed inside myself at first. Belatedly remembering
the tempting rubbish offered yesterday to chickens, I
hurried out into the garden, stopped by
her haughty, level gaze.

She was Sitting, not just sitting, at
the threshold of the henyard door, which stood wide open
as I had left it, with sirens of broken eggshell
and spent potato calling just behind her.
Taut-backed, high-headed, a perfect
statue of a borzoi carved from stone, with glinting eyes.

---Fine, you human.
I see the trap. Fine, then
I won't do it. I'll accede to your unreasonable
strictures, this time. But you should know how I resent!

I effused, and gave her
treats that probably weren't quite so good as
fragrant eggshells, but still delicious:
To thank her, and to tell her
I had seen.