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fire and painted an orange glow on the floor of the tractor shed. “People still go around the world by sail,” hesaid to Semolina, who was crouched at his feet. “I want to do that one day.”
    “I ain’t going with you, buddy,” she said, wiping her beak on his shoe. With some effort she stood up and tottered over to the old cracked cup without a handle. It sat on the floor, empty. She let out a sound that was as close to a chicken sigh as he’d heard, then she used one of her longer words. “Pathetic!”
    “Sorry. Grandma’s catfish batter took most of the bottle. I only got what was left.” He rubbed his hands together. They sounded like sandpaper. “Folk say when the sun sets over the sea, there’s a green flash on the horizon.”
    “Ain’t so,” said Semolina. “Tarkah never lays her eggs over the sea. You ever see a chicken lay in water?”
    Josh laughed and slid down to the concrete floor. He patted his shirt, and the old hen waddled over and settled against his chest. He could feel her warmth, her heartbeat inches away from his own, and smell the brew on her breath. “I haven’t heard those Tarkah stories in the longest time,” he said. “Tell me again.”
    A veil of skin closed over her eyes, as though she wasdreaming. “Tarkah is the first chicken, the mother of all the universe. One by one, she laid every star in the sky.”
    “You’re talking about God,” said Josh.
    “Yeah. You got it, buddy.”
    “But God isn’t a chicken,” Josh argued.
    “She is to chickens.” Semolina turned her head and unveiled a yellow eye. “You want me to tell this story or what?”
    “Go on.”
    “The earth egg was a real goodie. So Tarkah said, ‘This egg will grow all my family.’ So she sat on the earth egg for thousands of years until the mountains cracked and out flew birds of all kinds, eagles, sparrows, owls. But her favorite birds were the chickens.”
    “What about people?” Josh asked.
    “Biggies don’t get into this story.”
    “They should,” said Josh. “The Bible says human beings are the highest creation.”
    “Not to chickens, they ain’t. Look, buddy. You gonna keep your beak shut?”
    “Sorry,” he said.

    “Tarkah still lays her eggs. Her children needed light to fly and hunt and scratch for worms. So every day Tarkah lays an egg of fire and sends it spinning across the sky. The firegoes out. Earth egg sleeps. Next morning Tarkah lays a new fire egg. That’s the story, buddy, and that’s why chickens lay eggs in the morning and sing egg songs. It’s how they say thanks to Tarkah.”
    Josh nudged her. “Now tell me the Tarkah story about snow. You know, Tarkah’s feathers.”
    The old hen settled closer to his chest. “Another day. I’m tired.”
    “You won’t forget to show me the fox hole in the morning?”
    “Yeah, yeah, yeah.”
    “I got you the brew, Semolina.”
    “I told you, buddy, a deal is a deal.”
    “Okay.” Holding her against his shirt, he stood up and walked back to the house. “You can sleep on my bed, but if Grandma comes while I’m in the bathroom, you’d better skedaddle out to the porch mighty quick. She says if she finds you in the house, something terrible is going to happen. You hear me?”
    Semolina didn’t answer. She was tucked in the crook of his arm, her head under her wing, and she was already asleep.

    Tarkah’s new fire egg rose behind the Binochette cows and cast long morning shadows over the grass. On the other side of the fence, Josh turned on the sprinklers over the Miller acres of Swiss chard. Watering was done early before the fierce heat—otherwise the fire egg would suck up the moisture from the leaves and shrivel them like old paper. Josh wiped his hands on his jeans. In the cool air, the sprinklers made a mist that changed to rainbows where the sun caught it. “Can chickens see rainbows?” he asked Semolina, who was following at a distance.
    “Sure! But rainbows ain’t nothing to crow about,” clacked