Ten minutes in the post office line,
and all the while
there persisted
a distant cheeping,
like a fine machine
crying out for oil.
Facing the clerk at last,
the sound was louder now
and from behind the counter.
So naturally I asked.
Chicks was the reply.
At my benighted gaze
he reached below
and set a small
cardboard box on the counter,
air holes and an up arrow
pointing up.
Sure enough,
one dozen baby chicks,
tiny beaks poking
out through the holes,
their fate entrusted
to the loving care
of the U. S. Postal Service.
It was humorous and sad,
and I left unsure how to feel.
A risky but no doubt
adventurous journey
for such a frail family,
and one unlikely
to end well even if
everything goes fine
en route.