In April on that lonesome muddy road, two pilgrims from the farmyard met at dusk. Feather with her plumage prim and bright, and dusty Henny scratching near the side.
“What brings you from the coop?” asked Henny.
“It’s Red,” clucked Feather. “I’m leaving him.”
“Oh, honey,” Henny said. “We’ve all seen how he struts in front of the other chicks. I’m glad you dumped the loser rooster.”
“He thinks he’s cock of the walk,” Feather complained. “In truth he’s barely a bantam. I’m going to town. To the shrine, where chickens like us are worshipped. The building with the chicken on its sign.”
“Indeed, I’ll go with you,” offered Henny. “Since my poor Leghorn is gone, I’m down to scratching in the streets.”
“What happened? Was he antidisestablishmentarian?”
“No, Feather: worse than that. It seems His Majesty decided to throw a grand banquet. The farmer took poor, sainted Leghorn.” Henny hung her head. “By now he’s royally plucked.”
“Why so glum, hens?” came a kind voice. From out of the woods, a sly red fox approached.
“Ba-gawk! What say you, fox? Leave us poor hens alone!”
And so the trio rushed clucking towards town, seeking that fabled shrine of chicken-kind: the building with the chicken on its sign.
This pointless little goof tale was written for Flash! Friday vol. 3-37, where the prompt was inspired by The Canterbury Tales.