The Western Bulldogs

Last night, my anson shone his torch on one of the chooks in the dark corner of the run where she was crouched. The boy's father dug a hole and tipped her in. I cooped up handfuls of star shaped, half rotted red leaves and sprinkled them over her grave. How slender and frail a chicken is when you pick her up. Feathers and beaks are all bluff. On the news an icy you bed with a human figure on it. All i could see through the pale fabric that the body was wrapped in was the movement of its shallow gasping. While i barrowed chicken shit to the compost, i noticed how light my mood was