The chickens have a secret place, alongside the Pig Barn, under the lilac trees. They are coming to trust me and my camera. When they are in their secret place, I often come and lie with the camera for a half hour or so, and they tilt their heads and cluck at me a bit, and then go about their business of strutting and preening and clucking. Before I take a photo, I like to imagine the chickens as dancers in the Chicken Bolshoi Ballet, and the lilac bush is their green room, and they are preparing to go on state and dance and they are cleaning and stretching and preparing themselves. They are swirling and preening, a carousel of color and focus.

And I am a fly on the wall, a mirror, just hoping to capture a sense of their glory and stardom. That is what I imagine, lying in the muddy and wet grass, at the Chicken Ballet.