This morning one of the six remaining old girls is moving very slowly, head tucked in. With chickens, this is not a good sign. She responded to bread as a treat, got off the roost, but is showing a preference for standing in the strong morning sun.
It is, I hesitate to say, The Great Walkabout. When civilization as we know it has collapsed under its own weight and we huddle around makeshift campfires in the wasted wilderness, bards will yet sing her story to wondering children and adults alike.
