Hen

Hen works at the base of a large tree with intent concentration. Having raked back the twigs and leaf litter, she is quarrying the bare soil. She scratches, stops and peers closely, scratches some more, peers again and makes a soft satisfied noise in her throat. She leans close, turns her head and scrutinizes the small islands of movement in the patch of cleared soil with her right eye. Then, with delicate precision, she pecks up each wriggling insect.

The cloud that has been covering the sun moves away and sunlight illuminates the bare earth at Hen’s feet. She spreads her wings languidly in the sunshine, folds her legs, then lounges onto her side while working the fresh earth with her feet. The dirt makes small dust clouds around her as she kicks it over her body. Then she creates more clouds as she flaps her wings and rolls in the loose soil, massaging it into her feathers.

She flicks her third eyelid in a rapid blink and feels her toes curling through the spaces on the floor of the wire cage. She takes a breath of the dusty, ammonia-tinged air and feels the persistent pecking on her neck administered by the hen standing next to her. Pecking Hen pecks. Hen thinks: It is Pecking Hen’s right and duty to peck. Hen would move away from Pecking Hen if she could, but there is no away. Pecking Hen’s pecks do no damage because the end of Pecking Hen’s beak is cut off, like Hen’s beak and the beaks of all the hens.

On Hen’s other side, Shy Hen stares into the dark distance of the barn. Hen glances at Shy Hen, then gives her a hard peck on the side of the head with her broken beak. All the hens peck Shy Hen. It is their right and duty. Since there is no away, Shy Hen spends her time absorbing the pecks and staring at nothing. Hen thinks: She is dying. Hen thinks: I should move away from her.

But there is no away.

Hen pushes her way through the other hens, thrusts her head through the wire bars of the cage and pecks some pellets with her deformed beak. Then she drinks from the water nipple and moves back to her spot.

Hen thinks: I will lay an egg. The egg emerges from Hen’s body and rolls away on the slanted wire floor. As it rolls it bumps into other hens’ legs several times, but soon rolls out of the cage and onto a conveyer. Hen watches her egg as it glides away and out of sight into the dim, dusty atmosphere of the great barn. Then she sings her egg song.

As she sings, Hen thinks: My egg song is important, somehow. Eggs are important, somehow. Then Hen stops singing. Stupor hangs in the air of this place as much as the ammonia and the dust, and every hen inhales it with each breath. Now it fills Hen, and she forgets that eggs are important. She lies down on the slanted wire floor, leans against Shy Hen, and shuts her outer eyelids.

Hen opens her eyes to the oblique sunlight of late afternoon and the dust bath. Other hens are lying next to her in the aromatic earth depression. Shy Hen is sleeping so close that she is actually touching Hen. Hen swivels her head and gives Shy Hen a firm, reminding peck on the leg with her sharp beak. Shy Hen opened her eyes with a start, immediately realizes her indiscretion, averts her gaze, and respectfully moves away.

Hen has always lived here and will live here forever. This place is where chickens live. This place is where everything is connected. This is place is real. This place holds life, and life is precious.

Pecking Hen on the outer perimeter of the flock moves toward the shadows at the edge of the clearing. Hen and the other hens fall in behind her. It is time to roost.

Pecking Hen flies to the lowest branch of the roosting tree, hops from branch to branch and settles on the highest branch. Hen and the other hens negotiate for roost position by staring, pecking, and shifting around until everyone has found a place. The sun has gone. The forest is dark and quiet. Then thunder rumbles in the distance.

Hen listens to the rumbling fill the barn. Hen remembers: Long ago, in the beginning, she had been in a cage on the rumbling thing as it moved through the barn. Hands had grabbed her and put her into this cage and she has been here ever since.

Now the rumbling is louder and Hen hears the alarm calls of many hens. A rumbling thing stops nearby, and hands grab the some of the hens in her cage. A hand grasps Hen’s leg, swings her through the air, and drops her into a cage packed with hens from her cage as well as strange hens. Then the rumbling starts again and the hens are moving through the barn. When the rumbling thing stops, hands hoist their entire cage onto a much larger rumbling thing. Hen’s eyes glaze in fear and she breathes in rapid gasps through her open beak. The combined bulk of the bodies of other frightened hens have wedged her in the very corner of the cage. Clanging, roaring and the continuous screamed alarm calls of many hens fill her ears. The large rumbling thing is moving. The air is cool now and smells clean, but the wind is strong. The wind and rumbling continue for a long, long time, and eventually Hen closes her weary eyes.

When the sun rises, Hen hops from her branch to the lower branches and then to the ground. Some hens are still roosting, but many are already on the ground, scratching through the leaf litter, and moving in small groups into the forest. The storm lasted the night and a sharp wind is still blowing. Hen thinks: I will lay an egg.

She walks into a dense stand of trees with branches that sweep low to the ground. The light from the rising sun has barely penetrated here and the air is still. There is her nest, which she has built of leaves, grass and her own feathers. Hen sits down.

The rumbling thing stops. Again, there are hands. They hoist Hen’s cage down and snatch the hens from the cage, one by one. A hand grips Hen’s leg, swings her through the air, fastens her leg to something. She is hanging upside-down. Already fatigued, hanging with her feet up and her head down confuses her. She tries to bend her neck at a sharp angle to make her head upright. That does not work. But she can turn her head side-to-side. She can’t see behind her, but she sees a line of hens in front of her, all hanging by their legs. One angry hen is flapping her wings, calling, and fighting to get free. Hen realizes: It is Pecking Hen.

Confusion, strange noises, and the frightened calls of other hens fill Hen's world. She closes her eyes.

She concentrates on the peacefulness of the forest around her and produces her egg. It feels round and hard beneath her in her nest. She sings her egg song. Hen thinks: My egg song is important. Eggs are important.

The line of hanging hens is moving now. They move over a water tank. Hen, with her feet above her head thinks: It is the sky! Pecking Hen is still fighting, calling, and struggling to get free. The line moves lower, toward the water’s surface. Hen thinks: The sky is falling! Pecking Hen still struggling, enters the water—first her head and then her body. Pecking Hen stops struggling.

Hen hears a faint peep. She stands, bends, and peers closely at the egg beneath her, moves away, turns, peers again and makes a soft satisfied noise in her throat. Hen thinks: Eggs are important. She leans close, turns her head and with her right eye scrutinizes the small pip on the eggshell. Her nest contains many, many eggs. Hen thinks: Were there always so many eggs? Then Hen thinks: I have laid very many eggs! Of course! These eggs are mine. They belong here! And when she examines each egg, she realizes small beaks are pipping through every shell. And it all makes sense! This is place is real! This place holds life! And life is precious!

Life is precious!