Sky, not falling; quite the opposite 

The chicken crossed the road 

and was immediately surrounded by the press. 

"Why?" they cried, in many languages. "Why

did you cross the road?" 

The chicken, who was smoking a suddenly 

legal cuban cigar, looked at all the members 

of the international press, then up; up 

at a fuzzy boom microphone 

hovering overhead. 

"Well, that reminds me of an old friend," he said. 

"The road, why the road?" The fever 

of the press was rising. "Por qué usted cruzar?"

The chicken smiled. He blew a smoke triangle,
because of the beak.

"Did you clear it with the Coop?"

"What co-op? You mean, like - a consortium?"
The chicken was trying to help clarify.

"No, the Coop! The Chicken Coop!" yelled
the press.

The chicken was looking over their heads
toward a misty thick green mystery of
pine trees. "Well," he said, "if that's what
you guys need, then go on, enjoy that, but no,
I'm not in a coop."

"Do you have citizenship?" Someone in uniform
asked, from the crowd. "This side of the road?"

The chicken smiled again, and started walking.
"Sure," he said. "Everywhere!" 

"But again, why?" asked the journalist in charge,
getting louder, standing with the uniformed one,
talking on a cell phone. "Why did you cross?"

"To get to the other side," said the chicken, softly
… getting farther and farther away.