On a street in dream, in a town with one street, and snow
banked on the sidewalks, the shops were open and people
walked in the middle of the street; no cars were passing.
The pigeons were all beautiful: green and red and blue, like
parrots. Maybe they were parrots but they didn’t mind the cold
and stood calmly on lampposts and the backs of benches,
showing themselves, beautifully. A man behind a counter
offered me the last fertilized egg: If I wanted to raise a chick.
Instead I went into the barn where a soft hen sat in her coop,
and from beneath her wing I took a still-warm egg—an egg to cook
and eat, not to hatch. The hen came toward me to be petted;
she was brown, and climbed up into my arms, so light, so
soft, then hopped down and returned to her roost, content.
It was warm in the barn, and light slid in through the boards.
What was the name of that town? If I knew it I would go there.
I was alone there in a new way, befriended, at ease, and yet
lonely, because the space inside me had become so vast
—a loneliness so great, it seemed to invite God—
Though He had not as yet appeared.

Cynthia Huntington
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