An Alien Visits an Earth Farm

“Hi,” said I, in their alien tongue,

under an alien sky.

Erected boarders patterned the land

and I wanted to know why.

Beasts of form, various in size,

feather-fluffed, bellowed,

or side-eyed.

“Pardon me, as to be so naive and bold,

what are these bars between you?”

I flicked the rod I hovered above,

tail-tip tapping, tang!

Chained, locked, cold.

-

“Well, to sort us of course!” Came a short retort from a snorting snout walloping about in some muck.

-

I waited a bit but that seemed it,

so again,

I pried:

“But why sort you?”

-

“Who are you, to ask a question of such?”

Hissed a small beast of striped fur and tattered face,

“why do you give a …”

-

“Now, now!” Clucked a creature

with feathers quite unlike mine,

“Excuse the cat, he’s always like that; soured by curiosity.

That’s it!” (squawked the feathered one, in frantic cluck) “I know what you are!

So that’s solved.”

-

“Excuse me but, … what? “

-

“A cat! You must be a cat

all your curious questions like that.”

-

Horrible hissing came from that tattered face of fur, dagger-lined jaws

quickly deterred

logical labels of feline:

“Flight and wings don’t come from my phylum, thank you very much.”

-

“Cluck. We must assess again!”

(She of feathers scratched notes in the dirt with taloned nails a-top leathery feet).

-

“Pardon me, as to be so naive and bold,

but why must I be labeled?”

-

“To sort you, of course!”

Propagated the snort from the muck.

“We’re better managed that way.”

-

The cat shrieked in laughter and Feathers gave her clucks.

-

Oh dear, perhaps I do share uncomfortable familiarity with Scrap Cat; I could not away from asking, in fact:

“Managed for what?”

-

The uproar that caused; a real jester I must be.

-

In the dirt down below,

between blades of green,

early water dripped

and splashed into paths of squirming

fat tubes,

tilling the soil vehemently

left and right of the line.

-

“For what?

Because we’re important, you fool!

They need us!”

She clucked and she pecked

at pale flecks on tin pan:

Tang! Tang! Tang!

Thankful

she’d not been dealt my dull hand.

-

By now my shoulders ached

so my wing-beat slowed

from thrum to fan

as my tail anchored,

coiling cold pole,

yet unconvinced

of which side to land.

-

“Begging your pardon,

clearly I am new,

what do they need from you?

Do they need me too?”

-

The gallery brayed, lowed, squealed; bleated unanimous:

“NOT YOU!”

-

before boasting in battle of pride:

“They pump our milk in relentless need.”

“Our eggs are taken as fast as they can eat!”

“I am a delicacy fried on a pan!”

and the cat went on shrieking.

-

It was then I slithered slowly

lose of my perch

and called down

before leaving Earth behind,

“Pardon me, as to be so naive and bold.”