| Fowl Tale When I was a girl, ‘round about ten Daddy did not keep his fowl in a pen. That year, rather than raise egg producers, the chicks that he ordered were every one roosters. Now up to that point, I hadn’t a care that these nice feathered creatures were found everywhere. Until a fall day I walked into the shed where a dozen or more grown roosters were spread. Dusting themselves in the powdery dirt, it seemed my appearance brought them all alert. I swear I’m not crazy; they talked with their eyes! For they devised a game and I was the prize. They all started toward me, circling my spot; I tried to retreat but found I could not. For each step I took, they would advance, putting me in a complex circumstance. When I stood like a statue, so would the birds; I tried to yell out, but could not form the words. For what seemed like hours I stood rooted there with no one or nothing to help anywhere. My hands hanging idle, started taking a chill. I inched them up slowly, the roosters stood still. I at last reached my pockets, their warmth to provide. With surprise and new hope I felt something inside. Half of a chocolate bar soft in its wrap; This may just be the way to get out of this scrap. My fingers worked frantically opening it; then I tossed it out forward, lickity split. The roosters were on it, like gravy on bread, while I kicked up dust between me and that shed A first hand account of childhood trauma can be heard from this true tale of cockerel drama. |
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