Saturday, May 6, 2017

Montana Chickens


She seemed like a nice old lady...

Late, into her eighties...
With a smile that would light up the sky

I was eight years old...
Stepping out of our vacation motor home

Wiping away the sleep from my eyes....

Livingston, Montana...
Is where my crazy family had landed
Stiff and tired from a three day ride....

She greeted us from the porch....
White and gangly like a stork
Then hugged my mother with a loving pride...

I looked at my surroundings....
The muddy ground....
And the sound of the Yellowstone River pounding, near by....

The old Conway farm, was worn down
And uncharmed....
But, had a beauty that would make you cry.....

After a couple of minutes talking...
The mother/daughter team came a walking
And called me over, to their side....

Grandma had a problem....
And she wanted me to solve it....
A feathered terror that was two feet high....

It was a little red chicken.....
That had escaped into the forbidden....
And the freedom had turned it shy....

I was assigned to the mission....
And if a failed, I'd never be forgiven
With out a victoy, I'd surly die....

So, for the next two days...
I wore my best hunter gaze
But, my prey left me mystified....

I felt like Rocky Balboa...
But, moving like old man Noah....
Trying to save a feathered friend from the rising tide....

I finally captured the stupid chicken....
It was caught slipping, eating bugs happily, double dipping...
When a tackled it, giving my best war cry....

I carried it back to the house....
And dropped it on my grannies blouse...
With a greedy hand out, awaiting my prize....

And that's when I realized grannie was senile
When she only awarded me with a spacey smile


While the bird ran out the door and vaporized....

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