Week #8 Vignettes:

I came home from work around six in the evening. It was the last week of standard time, so the light was just at that point when you could no longer see well. I walked to the chicken coop to lock the two girls in for the night. I stuck my head in the door to say good night. I didn’t hear any of their normal evening clucks as I disturb their slumber and they stir ever so briefly. I looked more closely, and thought “They’re not in there. Shit, why did I let them stay out today?” I went back to the house for a flashlight, and checked again. They weren’t in there. “Shit.” I moaned, again. Last spring I had pushed their luck and let them run and lost one, I hoped that didn’t happen again. Sometimes they like to hide out in the little shed, more like a dog house, that I had built when they were small.

I wandered over, peered in and saw no birds. By now my flashlight was loosing its brightness, so with less and less visibility I searched the yard hoping to find them. By the woodshed, I found a chunk of breast with brown feathers attached, that would have been Winnie. I looked under the canoe, hoping to find Penny, my favorite, but there was no black chicken clucking in fear or pleasure to see me. I continued looking around until the flashlight gave me no light, which actually wasn’t all that long. I decided if Penny had made it she would be up in a tree, if not, there wasn’t much I could do anyway. I went in dismayed and mad at myself for letting them run free that day.

In the morning, with the light of the day, I looked for more clues. The pen, with gate open, was littered with feathers and the carnage of two birds struggling against their predator. I never saw footprints. As I returned to the house, I saw a part of Penny half buried next to the porch. “Damn,” I had hoped she had made it. I got my shovel and gave her a deeper burial by the blueberries.