It's dark. Moonlight slips in through the slatted walls.
High high above in the rafters of a cavernous barn the muted stirring of perched hens.
(If poultry could whisper.)
A few downy underfeathers float down in a silent entourage of dust, float down in and out and in and out of the moon.
Pig snouts in shadows, too-toothy grins brimming with spittle.
The near-silent hum of something falling.
An egg cracks on the hay / wood floor, a sharp treble followed by flowing ooze.
(Gravity's still working.)
A filthy pair of pie-balds scurry in to lick the freshly dirtied yolk & white.
This is the Hens' Protest.
(More than eggs will fall.)
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