I’ve been bred fine, Mr. President. Finer than the rest. When the light comes up over the pens, it strikes my feathers like a torch, and I know it is not the sun but the world itself come to see me. They say a bird cannot understand destiny, but they never met a bird with mirrors for eyes. I have looked upon my own reflection in the metal of the trough and seen greatness staring back.
The others think of corn. I think of legacy.
They cluck and gossip about the day’s feed. I think of the table. Of the silver laid out like a promise. Of the man whose name rings in the air like thunder over dry land. Donald J. Trump. I say it slowly, like a prayer. There is power in the syllables, heavy and shaped by history. The handlers speak of him as if he were weather itself, vast and inevitable, and I reckon that’s true enough. You can’t fight the weather. You can only rise into it or be buried by it.
