New Year Morn

What's left of the cool air pops open my eyes
in time to slide on sandals and amble into
the stone courtyard, the corner housing
chickens with sticks and barbed wire.

A noise floats across a field of silence -
pip pip pip - the sound of escape, the sound
of new, chicks sprung from eggs on the
morn of the new year in the

same place that my father will later ring
with firecrackers, sending forth black smoke
that kindles the mirth in his eye,
his giggles a reminder beneath the pop pop pop

of youth. I envision the night, smile, then crouch,
yellow feet wobbling across mortar, chirping for more.