“What if Chicken Little was right?”

What if Chicken Little was right all along—  
Her feathers a-flutter in shades of alarm?  
Her shrill, startled squawk, dismissed as a song  
Of pointless confusion, not signaling harm.  
What if, beneath the low branches she fled,  
A real sky-tumble came tumbling down—  
Ominous gray with a forehead of dread,  
Shadowing Foxy's and Henny-Penny’s small town?

Would we hear raindrops as drumming of doom?  
Or scatter like corn at each thunderous sound,  
Clutching our dreams through the gathering gloom  
With new urgency every time sky stones pound?

Perhaps we'd walk softer, look up with more care—  
Listen when little beaks speak of despair;  
For under the wings of the smallest of birds,  
Truth may take flight in the unheeded words.

If Chicken Little was right all along,  
Would we notice small changes, the weak creaking beam?  
Would we finally trust the alarmist's song  
And mend the blue ceiling—restore the sun's gleam?

So next time a cluck breaks the calm of the day,  
Let’s pause from our busyness, nod, and then say:  
“It might be, dear Chicken, that danger is near—  
Thank you for warning; together, we’ll hear.”

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