Chicken Feathers

They blow about in the dusty street, the feathers. For the untrained eye, just part of the dirt. To the local, a sign of wealth and hope. Evidently, this home has enough chickens that one could be slaughtered and plucked.

Samia checks to make sure she isn’t being watched and slips into the courtyard, to knock on the inside door. Eventually it opens a crack, and when the woman inside sees another woman, she beckons her in.

It can be risky growing chickens. You might get noticed. But then also, it is a joyous thing. You might get noticed. You want the right people to realize and come. And knock. And ask.

Samia leaves delighted. Yes, she may learn how. Yes, she can start to grow chickens too. No, she should not make big plans and count her chickens before they hatch, but perhaps tonight she can rest a little easier. Feeding her children has been almost impossible. They are sick and weak.

And its so easy! So easy compared to the incredible slavery of poverty, the constant barrage of war. On the way out she picks up a feather from the street, smiling. Soon she will have her own feathers.