Pecking Order

Where do they stand, my children? Is place measured by years, by the weight of their maturity, or by some ancient charter the eldest to inherit; the son above the daughter, the firstborn hand receiving the blessing? Or the hand that grasps the heel and crown? Why must there be one heir, one chosen, while the rest are passed by? If I could, I would scatter the blessing freely, let it rest whole upon each head, not parceled, not withheld. Maybe multiplied like fish and loaf. And yet... as I press into law and lineage, A pulsing rhythm intrudes. A small knock, like someone at the door: A light drumming, as if with a tiny stick, A tap on my shoulder persistent, insistent, again, and again. Not antiquity, not inheritance, but the present voices and hands establishing, with comic precision, For even in chaos, There is rhythm. Even if it's just… An order to their pecking.