Chicken Out

So, we're crossing the James River on a late evening in the early spring of a Virginia kind. The James, the mighty James, a major shipping channel in Virginia's history. I don't know, we on route 288 or some shit. A long way from home, but I feel like I'm home in the Southside. For a moment, we witnessed the epic rise of courage while crossing the James on the four lanes of concrete.

We got up behind a chicken truck like Perdue or Tyson. A tractor and trailer loaded with metal crates filled with live chickens. And you see them, those trucks, stacked to the ceiling in open air containers are those chickens, off to a grimy end. Their final moments spent in the filth of themselves and their comrades, probably spending their existence in these conditions. We get up behind the truck, ready to pass as the feathers are flying and the diesel exhaust puffs through their lungs.

"What the hell is on top of the truck?" A white dot protrudes from the top of the crates and extends the drivers truck height. We look closer as we make our approach to pass the soon to be carnage. Wait! There's a chicken standing on top of all the crates, out of his cage! The bird is at the very back of the truck, as we get closer, I almost see his little bird beak crack a smile. He has found his freedom, his existence has culminated in this moment. The mofo is about to spread his wings on the back of a trailer that is crossing the historic James at 70 miles per hour. My heart begins to thump for this bird, the test is about to commence. Before we cross that bridge, with all the fortitude that can fit inside a chicken, the bird makes a leap of faith. I see his face, held upright to the sun's glare as it sets in the West. I shouted for him to fly like an eagle, like a tiger with wings, like an elephant stomping through the forest, like the lead wolf leading the pack, like a butterfly dancing from flower to flower. This chicken threw up the middle finger and peaced out! I could see his feathers form the shape of a hand and the biggest middle finger took shape. The time frame of the event was a total of 15 seconds. The bird had freedom for a quarter of a minute. Chicken jumped and fell to the concrete of that bridge over the James, the bird tasted freedom as the last meal on its palate. The bird made peace with an indifferent world. I was spellbound by the event as I thought of the complexity it represented. I want that taste on my tongue. An intimacy with the total freedom in mind and body. I work towards it, daily.