Person to person from Flying Feathers' Farm

So I’m on the phone with a Fair Play neighbor. A ramblin’ call, with a certified point buried in there somewhere. We touch on it periodically, but only to punctuate the free-associative flow of an early evening country conversation. Lulled into the BS, we’re trading schtick – meant to amuse, mostly. I play the rube to his hickory. Then…a big commotion comes through the receiver. All of a sudden his chickens are LOUD. The phone gets dropped. I listen to dead air for a few seconds. He comes back cussing out that damn bobcat.

Feathers, but no chicken spirits, flew the coup. This time.