Eventually there were too many roosters.

Mum lit the fire and loaded the woodstove

with silver pots that hissed and steamed

like hungry machines.

Dad waited by the woodshed

while we became foxes, caught flapping bodies

as bright as beetle backs

then turned them over to a practised axe.

The cats came to investigate then shrank back

from the witless charge of open necks,

protests spilling silently in red.

The finally still were delivered

to the scalded reek of the kitchen,

lowered into water hot enough

to loosen the pin of every feather,

glossy bibs now clotted

with their last indignant comment.