No Use Crying
Charles Venable
Mom always told me the chickens were harmless—they wouldn’t hurt me if I didn’t hurt them—but our dog never drew close to them. He circled around the flock with his tail between his legs. Normally, he followed me everywhere, but not into the chicken pen. I understood why when I got inside. The smell of shit and raw dirt clung to the corners of the coiled wire, and loose feathers tickled my nose as they rose in a stray sunbeam. I sneezed, and the chickens scattered with squeals and squawks. They found their way around my legs, through the door, and out into a half-circle of clucking and pecking around the door. My dog fled, abandoned me to deal with the birds alone. Inside the pen, the rooster pranced back and forth, head cocked to the side, one eye watching me as I tiptoed through the mud to the wooden boxes of damp straw where the chickens laid their eggs. His crest fell back, and he crowed into the air—it was half-past noon.
PhotoFinish 2019
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