If the divine lives in a broken heart, then surely he lives in the very small life of a chicken.

Meg lived a large life for a chicken. She did not adhere to the world’s chicken boundaries.

She was obnoxious, loud and pushy sometimes. Donkeys and cats and dogs

fled before her.

She adored the camera, as all ambitious chickens do.

She pecked at it two or three times, but I whacked her in the head with a small stick,

and she stopped pecking at my lens. Meg was wise.

Meg understood the basic truth of the chicken:

people bring food. Be near people. She followed it religiously.

She had faith in food. Bugs, ticks, flies and worms, too.

She never passed up a worm she could eat.

I understand that the lives of chickens are short and fragile,

but was very sorry to imagine Meg locked out of a barn and snatched

by a fox. No trace of her, not even a feather.

I imagine she gave the fox a fairly good run for his money,

and then made a good amount of noise.

It is the fate of chickens to be dinner, although we do not eat ours.

We live in the real world of real animals, and I am no farmer,

but live on a farm, and do not spend too much time mourning for a chicken.

Still, I am sad to lose Meg.

Godspeed, Meg, I hope you had a safe and happy journey to

wherever it is chickens go.