Here Chick...

A few days ago one of our chickens started to die. She was the one who'd been granted many lifetime transformations. Very, very beautiful starting out, she figured she could get away with being a poor layer. And she could—she stopped cold after her first year and never put down another egg. Then, this June, she began to crow* and she kept it up all summer.

But last week, the hen stopped crowing. Overnight, her utterly rosy, fat comb and wattle shrank and blackened as if blighted. She lost her balance and her eyes got squinty and flat-looking. She could hop/flop to the bottom of our yard, but couldn’t make the climb back to the coop. She stank.

This whole time, she never stopped looking around—up, down, sideways—to see what was interesting or dangerous. She picked the dirt for bugs and seeds, tried to catch flies on the wing, combed her feathers, stumbled patiently after her sisters.

I’m guessing that not once in that time did she think, Jeez, I was feeling pretty good last week—what happened? She played the pieces that were in front of her, then settled on the ground and put her head under her wing. Like a fine glove, her death was a perfect fit.

*see "there' is somethng about a chicken" below--read some other ones, too.