**Words by Amber L-J**
My loyal companions are consumed by wanderlust.
My chickens are always on the move, their bobbing heads often thrusting their bodies forward, onto the next location. They never stay in one place too long.
But like any concerned parent, I always ask them to write, and they have always kept this promise.
I hear the whistle of the postman, and my letters brushing through the envelope slot, landing softly in the hallway. My pooch hears this sound and, wagging excitedly, fetches this for me. As I am finishing my morning coffee, I flick through boring bills and arid advertisements before coming across a postcard.
I see the billowing sand dunes, with the pointed blades of grass waving to me. I see the orange sands warmed by the glowing sunlight which is dipping downward at the end of another day in paradise. I flip the postcard over, and begin to read the next chapter for the chickens who left my garden two summers ago.
They tell me of their experience at the edge of the world, with many other humans present on that gorgeous summer’s eve. The air was smoky with family barbecues (vegetarian friendly they hoped!) and blue cooler bags and flying bottle caps as far as the eye could see.
They frolicked joyfully in the cold sea, before drying out on the warm sand as the sea air ruffled their feathers just as I would after bath times.
Their journey home was one through the most beautiful fields, full of freely overgrown flowers interspersed with passionately red poppies.
The chickens missed me.
I hold the card tenderly in both hands, yearning to join them.
When the next chronicle of their journey is sent in a postcard, I hope to be featured in such a tale.
**Article continued on Page Two**