My grandma's hens, adventurous Rhode Island Reds, disdained the nests Provided in the chicken house - Those unintriguing cubicles Filled with trite straw. More glamorous To them, some cool, ragweedy angle Made by the rail fence as it zigged And zagged its way around the barn. For those hens partial to interior Yet temptingly unorthodox Sites, eggs could be deposited In troughs where mules were fed. And who Other than me, at daring eight, Would look beneath the corncrib's floor? Then there was one feathered aesthete Somehow contriving (did she fly Over the gate?) to gain access To the front yard, there smoothed a nest Among the lily stalks, and laid Under astonished orange flowers.