My chicken is in your backyard.
It’s not every day that I open my front door to this message, but it isn’t a complete surprise: I mean, I know there’s a chicken in the backyard. I had not known whence it came.
Five minutes later, my across-the-back-cinder-block-fence neighbour is gone, chicken secured snugly under one arm. Although our dinner plans have to be revised, the incident wasn’t a complete waste.
I learned something about herding poultry.
I learned that chickens — this one, at any rate — never stop moving and have a fondness for the shady shelter of a bush. As photographic subjects, they leave a lot to be desired.
And I learned that the chicken owner’s husband left something to be desired as a chickensitter.
There was no food out,
there were 10 eggs sitting there,
and the chicken was gone.
Dude, I told him, I wouldn’t pay you.
They may not be photogenic but I developed a fondness for the layers when we had a flock. I sculpted one in clay when I had my own pottery. Henrietta perches on a kitchen shelf reminding me of other redactions of myself.
Laurna – I don’t mind their looks so much as their refusal to stand still for even a second. Certainly my neighbour seems highly attached.