There is truth to the saying "birds of a feather stick together" until one, with birdlike ease, escapes the confines of the chicken yard. Before, without bounds, they all favored the lush vines sweeping the ground with new growth. (Seven vines consitutes a vineyard on this urban farm.) Keen eyesight led her swiftly through the hole, merely the size of a young hen, in the bird netting (The yards of netting serves as a nearly invisible fence confining the compost and coop, their own yard). The escape hatch opens the chicken yard to a new world of budding greens. Quickly performing a stiff limbo bend I was able to gain access between the rows of Zinfandel vines and then slying coaxed her out. Once Meatball finally realized she was alone; where in the world were her sisters; she strutted - no, ran straight to the west end where five chickens didn't seem to miss her for a minute. Birds of a feather stick together, as the saying goes.
