The chicken grew up on its own droppings, left Kansas City on a stiff northern rain. All its life led up to a flurry; truck, darkness, feathers, hands; pop went its neck; innards slug out. Then along I come in a Buick. This is not to lament the chicken, nor dismiss it; for that creature made me happy, filled my gullet, eased my work dead mind at the Barbecue King with my wife and children snapping french fries, chomping meat in peach colored twilight. This is not to lament our beastiality. I only wonder at God’s ways, our teeth, claws and the world going out our assholes.