the chickens.

24/05/2011 § Leave a comment

“Consider it a farm-warming present.”

“It’s a box of chicks.”

“Yes. It is.”

They placed the box in the back of the truck, a 1987 Ford F150, tan with brown panels down both sides. The box was closed like their moving boxes they had just unpacked: flaps shut in a circular motion.

“Do you think they will be alright in the wind?”

“Yes. It’s a ten-minute drive.”

Three of them sat on the uni-bench with the rear-window open in case we had to reach behind to the truck bed to close the box again. Sarah sat in the middle to ensure this responsibility and as the truck hit the highway, the forethought happened.

“Turn around! Put your seatbelt back on! They will be fine.”

“I can get it! They might be scared!”

***

They backed the vintaged truck against the barn’s crooked front door, recently fixed with compressed particle board, the yellow like fresh wheat against the old cedar siding of the building. Sarah climbed into the truck bed from the middle window and pushed the box of chicks to the lip, her father carrying the box through the door to the hay stall.

“I think they will be alright here.”

And he opened the lid, in a counter-clockwise motion. The instant freedom and flooding of light made them still and quiet. The father walked out of the stall and said, they would figure it out. The first one to exit was a turkey-chick, it’s neck telescopic for danger. It pulled itself to the rim and tumbled out. One.

Two, three, four.

Sixteen.

“They look so sweet.”

Some had noticed the ray of light coming from a hole in the wall and they began to wander towards it.

“Dad, I think they are going to get out.”

Sarah ran to the out side of the wall, but it was too late, the chicks began to run through the field.

“I can save them, I can save them!”

She ran around wildly trying to herd them back through the hole. One, two, three, four. Eleven. Four turkey and one chicken chick had escaped into the wilderness.

***

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