CHICKENPIE.Sunday Swing Chicken doesn't remember when he started noticing his reflection on the greens. Maybe it was the third hole, or the seventh, or somewhere in between—time gets fuzzy when you're lost in the rhythm of the walk.
Today the morning dew caught him mid-stride, club resting easy against his shoulder, backwards cap shading his eyes from thoughts as much as sun. There in the water's mirror: another chicken, upside down, walking the same path in reverse.
Some days he wonders if that chicken down there has it figured out better—seeing the course from a different angle, playing a game with different rules, or maybe no rules at all. Both chickens moving forward, both reflected, both trying to find the hole that makes sense of the whole thing.
He doesn't overthink it. Just keeps walking. One foot, then the other. The reflection does the same.
