John and I almost
ran out of gas. Running on fumes, we stopped for gas in Penasco, a tiny burg
some twenty miles from Taos. The people there were friendly. The
chickens, even friendlier.
I always commune
with chickens and I find them very entertaining to watch. This
particular chicken reminded me of my dear departed pet chicken of my
youth, whom I named Angel.
As chickens go, she
would be considered above average…perhaps enlightened. (Well, as
enlightened as chickens can be, I guess.) My mother used to find the
chicken sleeping at the foot of my bed after I fell asleep with my
window open on summer nights. Angel would squawk and drop her
blessings when my mother tried to remove her from my bed.
When I left
Northern California, Angel was nearly seven years of age and I had to
leave her with a rancher who assured me she would live out the entirety
of her life in chicken bliss, as a layer on his farm.
I can relate to the
Zen of the hen. We come into the world, lay a few eggs, and die.
