Prompt: non-fiction (with a bit of historical)
Title: What would a chicken type?
It's difficult for me to explain just how much I love my chickies. I mean, I have the words, but can anyone relate? Truly, they fascinate me, with their scaled clawed raptor feet, their glittering inward turning eyes that see a world I cannot.
Recently, I read that birds hunting on the ground see the trails of insects and snails bathed in a violet phosphorescence which they follow to their prey. And they are hunters, my fluffy chickies, of surprising agility and acumen, keeping the leaf-cutter ants and gobbling grasshoppers from annihilating the garden plants.
Perhaps it's because their world is crisscrossed by this glowing web of bugtrails that their eyes are so intently open, staring at what I perceive as just the ground. Although...I fancy sometimes that these small feathered dinosaurs also see another world altogether, ancient and clean and full of power. An earth fresh from a fiery renewal or an icy bath.
View attachment 3503969
We might think of chickens as symbols of the American barnyard, clucking and cockle-doodle-dooing along with the mooing of cows and oinking of pigs, but they are actually of Asiatic origin, island jungle fowl who scratched in the leafy detritus of tropical forests. I can see this part of their story clearly: long-plumed birds swaying in wicker cages stacked aboard a dugout canoe their captors paddled from archipelago to mainland, traded for silk or metal in the bustling bazaars of the east and brought west across the open steppes of Eurasia on horseback, to a cold wild place of warring tribes we now call Europe. Eventually, they made another water crossing to the Americas.
For all their "exotic" history, my chickies are also undeniably domesticated, as much a part of ourhearth and home as our six dogs--who grudgingly acknowledge the them as equal apples of my eye.
View attachment 3503968
Every day, I marvel at my chickies' remarkably accurate sense of time and exactitude for routine. In the mornings, they wake us up promptly at 6 am, squawking for food and to be let out. They make their way over to the "water cooler" for a drink and a gossip session. While they have a variety of sounds for different occasions, like a throaty hiss to warn of circling hawks, their inter-chicken communication is mysteriously silent.
I will see two of them, standing stock still with their heads less than inch apart, not moving, asking and answering. Then they waltz into my kitchen like they own the place, clucking and chatting to me about their day.
View attachment 3503973
How do I know they "talk"? Well, here is an example. Chickens are notoriously prone to foot problems, ulcers called "bumblefoot" where a small cut becomes a painful lump. But as we've found, it's become fairly routine to keep their feet clean and remove any infection before it becomes a big problem. So when we see a chickie limping a bit, it's time for a salt water foot soak and a cleaning.
Cleo our carrioca (featherless neck) chickie was the first to get bumblefoot. We took out the abcess and she recovered. Then we noticed Joanie, the big boss, had a decidedly swollen foot. Joanie, however, really did not want to be picked up. Ever see Rocky? Then you know how hard it is to catch a chicken on the run. Well, I saw Cleo and Joanie with their heads together the next day, intently and silently communicating.
I walked by and Joanie immediately squatted at my feet to be picked up and held. She was very calm. I'm convinced Cleo told her it would be ok, that we just wanted to heal her painful foot. No one will convince me otherwise.
My chickies follow me everywhere now. They each respond to their names. One night I was typing on my keypad and Butchie, the youngest, was perched on the chair behind me, following the "pecking" movements of my fingers with her beak.
. . .
I wonder.
What would a chicken type?
Maybe something like...
Clean up your mess, people. We have been here a very long time. We've seen it all in our collective journey--tar pits, lava flows, tidal waves, tornados, dust storms, fire and flood. And we've never seen anything like this.
How can you be so smart and so dumb to annihilate your only home?
They know an older world, clean and full of power. Their ancient glittering eyes have seen.
Why do I do what I do? Live without convenience or culture, washing and wearing the same ragtag clothes until they fall apart, digging in the soil for roots to boil for food?
Many reasons. One is my chickies, and the world I know they see.
View attachment 3503977
)
thanks! 
