Paradise

 

Up ahead of me, I spy a small child trotting out of her backyard gate into the front side yard facing the street. She’s holding a large something—it’s awkward to hold, being at least half her size. As I approach, she lets go of a large butterscotch chicken, yes, a chicken! Butterscotch lands easily and begins pecking at the ground. I stop to chat cuz that’s what I do. And, I see that Butterscotch isn’t the only chicken. There are several chickens milling about, pecking at the ground: a speckled one, a feathered one, a black one.

            The little girl stands and stares at me.

            “Are those your chickens?” I ask.

            She nods.

            “Do they have names?”

            She rattles off a bunch of names in her little child’s voice. I can’t understand a word she’s saying. But I nod encouragingly. She’s small. Maybe 4 or 5 years old, with lank brown hair and pale white skin. She’s wearing a dirty pink dress that probably wasn’t dirty before she picked up the chicken.

            Then Dad emerges from the back yard, tall, dark,  handsome, and protective. He's wearing a lime baseball cap and holding a red weed whacker. Who is talking to his kid? When he sees me, he smiles. I’m no threat. No one is wearing masks anymore. But I’m still keeping my distance. Even though I really want to pet the chickens like I did the goats the day before.

            “Hi,” I greet him.

            “How ya doin’?” he answers.

            “Your chickens are really cute!” I exclaim.

            He chuckles, “Yeah, it’s Chicken Paradise here after the bare bones of the backyard.”

            I nod as we both observe the chickens pecking away in their weedy dirty paradise.

            “They really are beautiful,” I say. “Are they special kinds of chickens?”

            He’s all in now, “Oh, yeah. That one there....” He points to the spotted one. “....is called a Dominican Chicken. But another name for it is the Mayflower Chicken. It’s been around since the 1600s.”

            “Wow!” I admire Mayflower’s spotted feathers. She doesn’t look that old, but who knows how long chickens live if you don’t eat them.

            “And that one there, we call him Feather Foot; she is a Feather.....”

            I don’t catch what he’s saying, but nod like I do.

            “The Golden one over there is called a Golden Chicken.”

            “That’s appropriate!” I laugh. He joins in. The child continues, all this time, to stand in one place, staring at me. Then she suddenly stops staring and starts to follow Mayflower around. Trying to grab her. But Mayflower will have none of it and scurries away. She’s got pecking to do in her Chicken Paradise.

            “Where do you live?” Dad continues.

            “Oh, down on 32^nd street.”

            “Rebecca is on 31^st street. She has chickens.”

            “She does?” I am dubious about this. I haven’t heard any chickens in the house behind me, but maybe they’re all just relaxing in the hot tub with glasses of wine and Vogue magazines.

            “Yeah,” he nods.

            “I do hear a rooster every day. I think it lives in the house across the street from me but not behind me.”

            “Yeah,” he pauses. “We don’t have a rooster, but these girls do make a clucking noise.” He mimics the chicken noise. He’s very good at it.  The little girl laughs. Chases after Butterscotch again, who evades capture. At least for now.

            “Well,” I say, starting to walk on, “you have a good rest of your day.”

            “You too,” Dad says, holding his weed eater machine. Is he going to cut all the yummy chicken weeds?

            That’s hardly what Paradise is about. But, for a chicken maybe Paradise is just around the next bend.  

            As long as you can peck clear of children. Who should never be a part of Paradise.

            I cross Clinton Ave, looking both ways before heading up the next block. I hear the weed eater’s motor’s whine and wince. Such a heinous noise. But as I continue to walk, the whine fades. The neighborhood is quiet on this block. No chickens. No weed eaters. No little girls.

            A lone dove coos out into the blue sky. A strawberry tree sways in the breeze. I breathe in the late spring air, clucking softly to myself as I cross Garvin street.