Chickens make no paths. They range
Across their yard in search of grubs
And worms and seeds and warmth
Without predictability; they make,
Where grass grew, a shallow mud
With tracks that tend nowhere.
But fill with moisture and then freeze
A film of crisp brown ice.
Cows make paths, terraces around the hills
That join and dip and dodge and lead
Conveniently to groves of hazel scrubs.
Dogs make paths; foxes don’t; men do.