The guinea-fowl

It is my beloved hunchback.

She only dreams of cankers because of her hump.

The hens do not speak to her.

Abruptly, she bolts and attacks.

Then she lowers her head, bends her body,

and speeding her skinny legs,

she strikes quickly with her strong beak,

aiming for a turkey in the middle of the circle.

That showoff gets on her nerves.

Thus, with her blue-stained head, its plumage frayed,

she rages from dawn till dusk.

She fights without cause,

perhaps because she imagines

that she is being mocked because of her size,

because of her bald head, and her low tail.

And she continually sounds a discordant cry

that pierces the air like a knife.

At times she leaves the courtyard and disappears.

She gives the peaceful birds

a moment's respite.

But she returns, more turbulently and more shrill.

And, frenetically, she sprawls out on the ground.

What is she doing?

The cunning prankster -

she left to lay an egg in the country.

I can find it if I choose.

And she rolls around in the dust like a hunchback.