The chicken in the box takes his time studying the forested surroundings before he hops on the edge of the cardboard and takes control of the situation. Instantly, in command of the woods, in charge. With a thrusting neck and firm feet, he kicks at the man who delivered him, who kicks back black-booted with no-nonsense-fury. Tamped-down fury. The kind where you have kicked and you’ve kicked so powerfully and so long, that you realize a big blast of anger is not needed, when merely a wee bit of venom does just the trick.

That foot sends the rooster jogging down the hill, appropriating his new world, clucking in admiration.

Nodding, strutting along with a voice that hasn’t quite reached the volume of clucks looking for his harem.

The man drives home along the darkening countryside, trying not to think of the lone outcast in a foodless, sunless, femaleless kingdom. Do roosters panic?

When they get aggressive around little kids, you have to take them for a hike, one way or another before an eyeball becomes spaghetti, or a face is torn for good.

Later, dry under flannel, dogs at the end of the bed, cat on his chest, rain pounding outside, the man tries to read Siddhartha to gain perspective. You pick up shit on river cleanup day to gain some karma. You compliment your aunt’s unflattering mumu dress. You hope your list of do-goods and be-goods outweighs the animal you left in the woods.

Light’s out, wondering about the crossroads of instinct and will.

It is a big sinkhole currently, this act, this secret deed. When animal-lovers reach the limit of choice.

What is the rooster doing now? The man thinks it is past midnight. Solid, identifiable, factual nighttime. No hem-hawing about it.

Is he roosting on a branch? Is he still calling out? Kool and the Gang blurting, “It’s Ladies Night” might have been funny a day ago, but hey, this isn’t funny anymore. Where is everybody?

Maybe he has been eaten. Every animal must eat.

But did he suffer! An unbearable thought. The man squints, makes a lemon-face. Thinking of the jaw, the talon, the teeth.

There is not one person who knows what was done. Not a one. No one witnessed the discard of the rooster, once belovedly called Roland. No one discussed the decision because no one else noticed how Roland ran head-first so quickly toward his little bent-over granddaughter and —

He saw, and that was enough.

The man can’t sleep.

Slippers, plaid robe. Down coat.

Breath visible, cold, rainy, not quite snowing.

Flashlight, where the hens sleep quietly along the perch, solidly, tight as small warm balls. One of the ladies peers briefly with those hard-to-read burnt-orange chicken eyes.

It is dry in the coop, so he stays a while, sitting on a log, listening to the occasional content chicken mumble and the steady rain, until his feet become very very cold.