Pody saw his soul for the first time the night he refused to see the light.
He put a thick piece of fabric around his head, covering his eyes, and turned away of the potent ray. Day or night didn’t exist inside his cage. Only that dammed light, hitting them, cooking them, roasting them. If you are always awake, how can you sleep? How can you dream? Pody heard others talk about dreams, but nobody had ever experience one. You could cover your eyes, but the intense white rays would filter through.
But this night proved different.
He could see his soul, and he dreamt. In his dream his wings spread long, and he could fly too. He rose above tall mountains he’d never seen before. The world was colorful. And the night, oh the night, was wonderful with its dark mantle covering everything, the stars providing shy illumination.
Pody realized he wanted to live in a dream, or better yet, live outside his giant cage. But the dream only lasted a few minutes as the others poked him, yelled at him, and did all sorts of things to wake him. Were they jealous? It didn’t matter. He couldn’t live dreaming for the rest of his life, could he?
So he opened his eyes—just a little bit, squinted, trying to adjust to the rays, and a massive hand grabbed his neck, taking him outside his cage. Everybody yelled and flapped their wings.
Pody knew it was time to go the place where all the farmed chickens went and saw the world for the first time.
And for the last time.
