So Much Depends...

A few weeks ago, just before the snow, a glossy, red chicken was hit and killed on the road by school. Over the next couple of days cars swerved, willing to risk an accident just to avoid hitting it. Me? I recited William Carlos Williams as I drove around it four times a day (having changed it to white wheelbarrow and red chicken, my apologies Mr. Williams) without pause in one breath. But if I actually saw its eye I had to do it again. If I messed up the words I had to do it again. I am willing to bet that's a compulsion you haven't heard before!

Maybe it was the oddity of farmstead roadkill in an environment that is more used to squirrels and opossum. But I've seen cars on that road not even flash a brake light when they send cracked turtles spinning across the lanes.

Not so with the chicken. We all were avoiding that bad mojo.

And then the snow came.

And the reprieve from looking at the bird in the road. See, the snowplow took care of that for us. Scooted it on over to the side, buried it under a mound of snow, and let us all take our kids to school without thinking about our food chain.

And then the snow melted a bit.

Just enough to allow those yellow, gnarly feet to poke through. Which is just enough to keep me from eating chicken until we get another few inches of snow.

so much depends

upon

a few inches

of snow

covering

the legs

of a squashed red

chicken