First in the barnyard, I noticed the brown:
When the young pretender entered it was bad
but the blood was already washed away. I heard
the boss scratching, ready to crow at morning sun.
I looked up at stucco, a shadowed swept low arc,
hands soon to expose every crack and the housing
of legs that despised the sun, seeking a fey succor
before the rays bleached a little joy away for good.
It's just a little longer, is all.