Upon Moving Into a Renovated Chicken Coop

I may live in a coop,
    But I am not cooped up.
I don’t have wings,
    or feathers,
        or a beak on my face,
but I am free range�"
because outside of my
tightly knitted wood paneled walls
    and gouged wooden floors
is a yard littered with trees
older than the pecking ghosts that
    tap,
    tap,
    tap
through the night
when I lie awake in bed.
Past that yard is another,
    with a perfectly rounded hill,
where the only neighbors fence
slithers tattered and broken
over the dunes of grass,
and beyond a white horse
I have named Shadowfax
    grazes in the distance.
Too bad the ground on my hill
is covered in dead grass
    and thorns
that linger on like a nuisance in my feet
    throughout the rest of the day.
And past that yard is yet another,
    separated by a slow moving stream,
        but connected by a pile of stones.
When standing on the painful hill
with throbbing heels and toes,
It becomes very clear that the grass
truly is greener�"
this final yard gleams like an emerald
in the mid-day sun,
and soon the depths will rise
turning my yard into a chartreuse lake
that will dance and crash
when the wind picks up.
So although my coop is very small,
    my home is as large as a town;
        with a population of two.
I have all the room in the world
    to ease my mind
        and stretch my legs.