Day 1988, armless.

I like to look at the chickens in our garden. I like their behavior, they move like people do, but with no arms. They also move together, but don’t care for each other. Some wander off, but never to far. They act like they always starve, chasing sudden movements of a hand that points, in expectance. And most striking, they let it all go without care, even when they step in it, on their way back.

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