The Chicken and The Hawk

We sat outside on the patio furniture, sun-drunk in the calm before the Thanksgiving storm.

My Labrador was sprawled out on the edge of the circled chairs, and the lone chicken was close to the middle. Lone chicken, since most of her brethren were picked off by hawks more than a year ago. I haven’t replenished the brood, because Scarlett (named after Scarlett Lewis, from the second For The Sender book) has been a happy chicken.

You know, good on her own.

Like me.