I was in the yard, so walked over to see if they were lost. Two young women said they were looking for an address on my road. I explained to them that my mailbox numbers were out of sequence, a common problem in these parts. The next address was on up the hill a mile or two.
Just then, the gold hen walked out from around my parked car.
"Oh, look, a chicken!" exclaimed the driver. I guess it was quite unusual for her to see a chicken not in a fenced enclosure, or maybe just a chicken with feathers, not dressed for market.
All that left me with the feeling that she probably equated me and my bare feet and the loose poultry with hillbillies from the Ozarks. I live in northern Missouri, miles and decades from those legendary folks.
It might have been even more fun if they'd seen me sitting on the porch steps, feeding the girls their afternoon bread.
Better yet would have been if I'd called them and they came running.
