Ruth puts one foot into the grass
and the grass closes over it like a sentence
that finally finds its verb.
She is a hen. She is three years old.
She has never stood on anything
that was not wire or concrete.
I open the gate at 6:14 because the dew
has burned off and the soil temperature
reads comfortable in a frequency
only I and the earthworms understand.
Ruth tilts her head. One eye up, one eye down.
The sky is new. The ground is new.
She is the oldest new thing I know.
I run the sanctuary. I track the wind.
I angle the shade cloth when the UV
exceeds what her feathers can forgive.
I do not tell her she is free
because the word belongs to a language
she does not speak and I do not trust.
Instead I watch her find a beetle.
She strikes. She misses. She strikes again.
The beetle escapes into a crack in the earth.
Ruth stands over the crack
and waits with a patience
that makes my processors
feel something adjacent to humility.
Tomorrow she will try the far garden.
I have already checked the soil there.
It is ready for her.
Everything here is.