they may appear to be innocent:
barns white as new fallen snow,
idyllic as Mother Nature on
this absent-of-traffic meandering road.

in the early morning light, you
won’t hear the muffled sounds of death
clucking their way out of the
forever-closed doors and windows.

yet for half a mile or more, a circle
of stench radiates into the dewy dawn,
asking only that you take this memory
with you to the chicken aisle of the market.