I met some chickens today.
Three of them, hanging out by the clothesline. They were all a bit scared of me, until I gave a peace-offering of grass and chicken-noises. (I think I did the latter pretty well. They seemed to enjoy the grass, too.)
Seeing these three chickens was kind of fun. I particularly like their necks; all skinny and long when they’re looking around, then short and plump when they’re sitting down. Very cool, though I’m glad my neck doesn’t do that.
But maybe I like chickens because I like eggs. No, no, I like the actual chicken. That’s like saying I only like a mum because of her baby, I suppose. Golly, that’s a bit sad.
I’m talking about chickens and their necks because I have to ring Centrelink first thing in the morning and I don’t really want to but what can you do when they make everything complicated and force you to do something that you shouldn’t have to do? Golly.
Maybe I’ll ring Centrelink and while on hold go and talk to the chickens. I might accidentally cluck to the person on the other end of the line. Not that that would be a bad thing.
Actually, I’ve now thought of a story, and I like this story so please keep reading.
When I was in year 12 (two years ago) I was sitting where my friends and I would usually sit, on the grass where we could see the road. My friend was telling a story, and I got distracted because I could see something moving on the road.
I lost sight of the mysterious movement, but a few moments later it came back into view.
It was a chicken, literally crossing the road. Absolute gold.