feral chickens are a thing
It’s birthday weekend around here. Actually, it’s birthday month (happy birthday Christy, Vicky, and my honey), but we are celebrating John’s weekend. That involves ice cream, marathon movies, tasty food, and this afternoon, a lovely drive through the countryside.
I usually bring my camera along on such adventures — you never know what’s gonna grab my fancy.
You know, you never know when you’re going to run across a colony of feral chickens and want a picture.
We passed them so quickly on the country road that John wouldn’t stop or turn around. Sadness. I bet he would have stopped if it was feral goats.
Or feral cows.