On a recent early and glorious Saturday morning – it was 4°C outside –
I let the complaining chickens out. Chickens never stop complaining. They squawk and grizzle like rusted hinges on an old farm gate.
I lead them, squawking and grizzling, to their breakfast plate. They are terribly greedy, so they follow at a sprint.
There is no more comedic a sight than a sprinting chicken.
