|Feathers from dead hen.|
(Some phrases are adapted from the play “Death of a Salesman” by Arthur Miller)
I don't say she was a great hen. The black Australorp never made a lot of eggs. Her name was never in the paper. She was not the finest hen that ever lived. But she was a chicken, and a terrible thing happened to her. So attention must be paid. She should not have been allowed to be dragged away like a rag doll. Attention, attention must finally be paid to such a chicken.
I only wanted a little place in the country to raise some vegetables and a couple of chickens. Now only six hens remain out of the eight I originally had. Nobody’s worth nothin’ dead and that includes hens. The death occurred between the hours of 2:30-5:30pm so it was still light outside. I think it may have been a coyote because a trail of feathers led to the woods. I do know some poor animal died a violent death in the front yard at around 3am this morning because I heard the screams. I should not have let the chickens outside today, but they are always so happy to be let out of their coop. I will have to be more careful with them from now on.