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Poem	Oh, why should a hen have been run over on West 4th Street in the middle of summer? She was a white hen --red-and-white now, of course. How did she get there? Where was she going? Her wing feathers spread flat, flat in the tar, all dirtied, and thin as tissue paper. A pigeon, yes, or an English sparrow, might meet such a fate, but not that poor fowl. Just now I went back to look again. I hadn't dreamed it: there is a hen turned into a quaint old country saying scribbled in chalk (except for the beak).
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