at least five days a week, i drive down the hill into town. and then, in turn, at least five days a week, i drive back up the hill to home. the passenger-side window of my car doesn’t roll down, so the ride home is when i take a little back road, and stop to talk to the chickens.

i pull over, roll down my window, and greet them with a “good day”. i will then proceed to either ask them “what’s up” in english, or translate it into what i believe is chickenese. i sit in my car and cluck at them until they come over to the fence, where they scratch, stare, and cluck softly in response. every once in a while, the rooster will give me a crow*.

i sit and i tell the chickens that they are very lucky to be chickens, that they have it easy. they don’t know right or wrong, and therefore it doesn’t exist for them. they just do. i tell them that they don’t have to worry about rush hour traffic, or complex social interactions. this is not at all meant to belittle the chickens; far from it.

then, after a minute or so, i drive off, because another thing chickens don’t have to worry about is their owner coming around the corner of the coop to find a strange girl in a car babbling to their yard fowl. nope, that worry is all mine.


*the sound, not the bird. i wish it was the bird. that would be sweet.