Feather Plucker

A true cook with fake,

Red parts on her pale neck,

A small smile finds her

In the thriving firelight -

Gently she plucks feathers

Out of ten-some birds -

Geese, turkey, duck -

Their lifeless, flailing necks falling over the lip of the barrel

Filled with their blood -

A 15 pounder swings eerily from its tied feet -

Its wings open like it was going to take flight -

As the cauldron hisses with boiling water

She elegantly tosses them all in-

A feast that makes her smile-

Mashed potatoes

And making bird pot pies -

With a cobbler for dessert.