The 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).