The chicken was akin to some fabulous alien, the red head and orange eyes, the beak and strutting motions. I would joke that she had only moderately less repetitive thoughts than most folks I meet, yet a good deal more sane. As far as I could tell this was happiness for a chicken, a place to roam and find the tasty insects that were the goal of each day.
The chicken strode the field as if it was hers. Every worm in the rich brown soils was hers for the taking and she was utterly focused on this pleasant game. Her head would move as if she were part biological and part machine, as if there were beautiful cogs in that tiny neck. All in all she was a joyful fluff of feathers basking in the dayshine.
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