Scattering Chickens

i walk out the door
across the dew-quilted yard
towards the shed
where the chickens are.

i unlatch the door
and it creaks
open on rusty hinges.

through the crack,
the morning lights fade
into the shed.

it warms the moist straw
thatching the ground.

i see a yellow bantam
as he picks
around the shed.

i dip a plastic
cup into a bag of feed.
the grain and grit
pour from the cup
into the feeder.

hearing the flowing grain,
chickens awake.
their staccato saunter
goes before their pick
at the feed.

i walk across the moist green lawn,
and go back
to bed.

slapping my shoulder, a hand
drags me to my feet
only to see the chickens
running free.
I forgot to latch door!

the green yard
is speckled
with yellow chickens
who pick
around
for food.

i sprint down the stairs,
and out the door, frantic!
i chase the chickens all around,
and corral them near the shed.

they kick
and fight
and banter back.
flapping wings and flared
feathers give me quite
a scare.

i shoo and shoo
them in the door
and latch it.

i have since moved
from the farm
and have no chickens now
but they still get out sometimes.

i can feed them,
give them water,
gather eggs,
but if i forget
to lock
the door,
if i make
one mistake
these days,
my life scatters across the lawn.

this routine, this staccato saunter,
is speckled
with mistake.

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This poem is supposed to compare the experience at the shed with my life today. Does that work? Someone commented that it is perhaps too obvious? any better ideas about transition?
are the images of the chicken farm vivid enough, or too much so? if you read it out loud do you hear the percussion of the "k" and "d" sounds? other comments?