Some chickens never learn.

Mason, the barn owl, had seen the whole thing, but in the light of day, it'd been left to Old Ben, the raven, to break the news to Mrs. Foster. Late the night before, Mr. Foster had not been in his roost with the flock but had been crossing the road on Farmer John's property to go see the new Bantam girls across the way when the truck had come hurtling down the lane. Farmer John, evidently too far into his cups from a night of celebrating the end of harvest, had only seen the rooster in the dark at the very last minute, swerving in a huge plume of dust into the side ditch.

But it was too late. Foster had been caught up behind the front driver's side tire. Mason, sitting atop the loft in the barn, had hooted in warning and then had winced as the inevitable happened with a sickening crunch. He'd glided over to the large maple the sat shading over the henhouse to find Old Ben, nudging the raven awake.

"Such a pity," Mason tittered, shaking his head from side to side. "Such a pity."

When the dawn came and there was no rooster to call in the morning, it took a moment for the other animals to arise. First, Brandy the mare stomped her feet impatiently, nudging at the stable doors to be let out. Then Parker and Dean, the two pigs, began to snort and grunt for their morning chow. But it was Old Ben who kept still on his perch high above the henhouse and waited for Bernadette and the chicks to stir. It was he who would need to tell them of Foster's demise.

"No!" she squawked upon hearing the news. Old Ben had tried to tell her as gently as he could, one shiny black wing fluttering as he raised it to comfort her. "It can't be!"

"But it is, sadly," Old Ben intoned. "Hence why there are such rules for your kind. Crossing the road is a dangerous deed."

"Foster! Foster!" she clucked on, running around the yard in puffs of dust and debris. "Not my Foster!"

Nevermind that he'd been trying to cross the road to peak at the young Bantams that Farmer John had just brought to the farm two days ago.

"My children, what shall I tell my children," Bernadette wept. Old Ben shook his feathers and bowed his head. Indeed, what to tell the younglings.

"Shall we ask the dogs to retrieve his body?" Old Ben asked. "Perhaps we can place him beneath the oak on the east side of the pasture. He always did love the sunrise."

But Bernadette was in no mood to hear of burial plans. Her flightless wings were still beating up the dust as she cried and ran about the yard. The children, all eight chicks, circled about their mother and began to cry in earnest too, their baleful chirps finally waking up the humans.

Farmer John came to the door first, his clothes still rumpled and unchanged from the night before. He blinked into the sunlight, his red-rimmed eyes squinting at the ruckus in the yard.

"You! You!" cried Bernadette, barrelling her body at the door attempting to reach Farmer John's face. "You killed my husband!"

But Farmer John paid her no mind. She'd always been a high strung chicken and he often ignored her squawkings, even though today, she had good reason. Using the toe of his boot, he nudged her aside and moved towards his truck.

"Aw, shit," Farmer John said, running a hand over his stubbled chin as he looked over the carnage in the middle of the drive. "Becky, I done killed the rooster!"

"Bernadette," consoled Old Ben, placing himself between the old hen and Farmer John, "it does no good to rail against the human. They can't understand us. When he goes back inside, we'll have the dogs carry Foster to the oak."

Bernadette let out a loud crowing then, her feathers puffing up her chest, a few scattered into the wind at the force of her anger. Her chicks gathered around her, as much to restrain her as to comfort her. Old Ben shook his head and again was glad that he wasn't a farm animal. He and Mason were wild and not restricted by the same rules.

Becky, the farmer's wife, came to the door then, her hair still in a cap and her body wrapped in a shabby blue robe that had seen better days.

"Dammit, Clyde, that's the second one you've run over. We'll need to go to the mill tomorrow and see if we can't get another one."

And that was just it, Old Ben thought, how replaceable these farm animals were, their lives ending unnaturally short. He turned his face to the opening at the top of the barn where he could see Mason's eyes glowing from inside the dark. He could see the knowing nod of the barn owl even now. Old Ben had lived in the vicinity of this yard long before any of the other animals had come. He'd seen his fair share of chickens crossing roads, and despite his warnings, they still insisted on doing it.

Some just never learned.

Bernadette was ushered back into the henhouse by her children, leaving tiny four-toed footprints in the dirt. Ben shook his head once more then peered at the rising sun that had started off pink and soft, but was quickly becoming bright and yellow as the day crawled forward.

He hopped over to peer at the carcass and let out a resigned sigh. Clutched in the rooster's claw was a bright yellow daisy. Like all the roosters before him, a single chicken wasn't ever quite enough either, it seemed.

Some just couldn't change their natures, just couldn't seem to settle with good enough. They always wanted more, even if more killed them.

"Such a pity, indeed," Old Ben muttered to himself. Hopping away, he tucked his wings against his wizened body and found his perch in the oak tree, manning his post until the dogs could arrive to retrieve another chicken that dared to cross the road.