Chicken Little

I am sitting here reflecting on my week. I can reflect because my husband is at work, my children are gone, and my grandchildren are gone. I am, in fact, alone. This is a great feeling and one of the great things about being a lone is reflection. So today, before I actually write, I am going to reflect about my week. Monday, on my way to school, I was a few hundred feet behind a Tyson chicken truck. I travel Hwy 22 where the chicken trucks are as usual a sight as the big SUVs and the giant eighteen-wheelers filled with anything from milk to chemicals, to gas, to oil, to biohazards. My trip, while scenic, is very hazardous. But on this day, it was the chickens. They pack the chickens in so tight that many die of heat or being crushed. On this day, one of the little chickens figured out how to squeeze through the bars on one of the cages. That started a raining of chickens. Most died, some didn’t and the ones that didn’t looked quite shocked as they tried to get their legs to do what they should have been doing all alone and that is walk and run in an open space. Most headed for yards alone the way, some stayed near the road. I rolled down my window and yelled, “Run, run for your life, be free and watch out for coyotes and hawks.” This is what I needed to see, the ones getting away that is, in light of all the bad publicity of how the poor things get killed.
That was my excitement on Monday. Chickens! One up for the underdog.