In the distance, I can see chickens of all colors. When our eyes meet, they start running in my direction. Only the largest of them, with feathered legs, takes its time. I understand that she is the leader of the group. To prevent their assault, I pick up some gravel and toss it into the distance. My trick works: some divert their course, thinking they will find some grain. But I have just aggravated my situation: they come back with even more determination, enraged by my attempt to deceive them. I arm myself with a stick and courage. Their enthusiasm diminishes a little. I proudly continue to move forward, feeling their presence behind me.
This little November tale does not take place, as one might think, in a farm yard in the countryside. We are in the heart of Paris. In a cemetery. Private one, at that. It is not night, but the fowl
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Cecile Prieur, Publisher
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