Unusual Chickens for the Exceptional Poultry Farmer by Kelly Jones Page A

clear she wanted out.
    I shivered. The chickens didn’t seem to mind, but I didn’t want to leave them in that dark shed. I looked at the chicken wire on the window. It didn’t seem all that sturdy. But I didn’t have any way to get them home safely, and there were hawks around, even if Ms. Griegson had really gone off to the poultry show this time.
    The door latch rattled again, and this time the hook just kept on rattling until it worked its way out of the loop and fell hanging. The door opened. Henrietta glared at me.
    The hens spilled out of the doorway and started pecking at the grass with little chortles of glee.
    I don’t need a lecture that stealing is wrong, or that I should never break into anyone’s farm buildings. I know that already. (Better than Ms. Griegson, apparently.) And I know that letting Henrietta open the door and let all the chickens out without even trying to put them back in is just as bad. But what can I say? I decided right then that if I had to do the wrong thing to keep my chickens safe and bring them home, that’s what I was going to do. I didn’t know chicken keeping was going to be this complicated, but that’s how it is, I guess, at least with unusual chickens.
    The chickens followed me quickly enough, as soon as I gave them some sunflower seeds, and when I started jogging back toward the road, they ran along behind me across the field, flapping their wings for little bursts of speed on their drumstick legs.
    I swear I could feel it before I looked up and saw it. A shadow went over me, and there was a big rush of wind, and a huge bird flew back up into the sky as I ducked. So I ran for the trees along Ms. Griegson’s fence, waving my arms and yelling, as though that could somehow save my chickens. Then I felt that rush of wind again. I wish I could tell you exactly what it looked like, but I was so scared I closed my eyes. I’m not very proud of that, but it’s the truth. Then I remembered the chickens, and I snapped my eyes open, just as it soared up.
    I counted six, all huddled in a little group, with Henrietta and Buffy staring up after the hawk. I counted six again, only six, and I felt like a huge lightning storm was going to explode out of my chest, and I tried to remember whether I’d seen the hawk carrying anything as it flew away. But then Chameleon slowly unfaded back into view, and I could start panting again, trying to catch up on breathing. Then I remembered we still weren’t safe, and started running again, making sure they followed.
    This time Roadrunner ran ahead into the trees, far faster than I could, and I wasn’t too sure whether Henrietta’s feet were touching the ground. Buffy was the slowest; she’s not built for speed. So, when the hawk dove again, Buffy was last of the group, and when she saw it, she stopped altogether.
    I thought maybe she got frozen with fear, the way people say they do when they get mugged. But she was glaring and glaring at that hawk, and I looked at it, and you know, it looked kind of frozen too. Then suddenly it was shooting off in a different direction, not flapping, and I looked around, and Henrietta was glaring at it too.
    I don’t know if she really likes Buffy much, but she doesn’t want anyone else being top chicken, that’s for sure. It’s a good thing she knows that with great power comes great responsibility. Not like that hawk-chicken.
    We ran some more. We made it to the trees, and through the fence, and to my bike. I couldn’t see the hawk, but I was pretty sure Buffy didn’t turn it to stone.
    I gave them each a few seeds as a reward. Then I looked at my bike, looked at the chickens, and wondered what on earth I was going to do now.
    I was already past sensible, I knew that. Which also meant I was past asking anyone for help (since I was breaking the law, or at least common sense and good manners). My cell phone had no service, of course, not that it ever does around here, and not that there was anyone I could