The two year old birds were quickly stamped and on their way to California; scheduled to arrive there the next day. The duo of one year olds were headed to a small town in Texas. The fare, $100 per bird, to give those chickens a two day ride to the longhorn state. The post office is such a cross section of people and packages coming and going all over the world. You just never know what you will find there. Once, I was in a post office across town, when the man ahead of me got mad at the clerk for not taking care of him fast enough. Before I knew it, he was yelling at the clerk and threatening her to come back in and blow them all away. I felt such relief when he stormed out through the lobby and the front door. For a moment, life was peaceful again. Just as I stepped up to the counter, the angry man reappeared carrying a small pistol. Talk about weak at the knees — the five seconds that he waved the gun in the air was like watching a horror movie in slow motion. Both clerks instantly crouched behind the counter while a couple more patrons and I stood there frozen - no place to hide. Clearly the customer had gone postal and for a few seconds, that seemed like hours, it occurred to me that I might loose my life for a postage stamp. Perhaps realizing that he was way over reacting, the gunman wheeled around and raced back out the front door - not another word. The clerk stood up and handed me my stamps. “Just another day with the crazies,” she noted.  I  don’t even know if they called the police.  All the witnesses offered to stay to tell the police what we saw, but the staff said, “Just go.” As I turned to go, the last person in line offered me a gift, a Jehovah’s Witness pocket sized day planner and asked if I was saved. I clinched the faux leather book and stood shaking inside the door as the angry, gun welding citizen speed away. The two of us (the book and I) had witnessed a miracle at the Fessler’s Lane USPS and yes we are and were saved. So, let’s circle back to the chickens at the post office. I can’t help but think how scary it must be to be a two year old chicken riding in a cardboard box traveling with stacks of mail to parts unknown. In all the time that I spent with the bird man and the postal clerk; the chickens, not one of them, made a peep. Hero breeder birds risking life and limb in boxes with filtered holes and no food or water on the way, got weighed on the same scale as my oversized letter. In the dead of winter, in a small outpost post office in Nashville, Tennessee, those birds were stamped, moved to the stack of mail behind the clerk and left in the care of the US Mail. Just before I fell asleep last night I wondered how would you prepare a living creature for such a journey? I hope they got a really good meal and a chance to say goodbye to their family and friends. And as I lay in the darkness in the quiet of my bedroom I thought of all the correspondence - love letters, death certificates, birth certificates, offers to grow hair and buy sofas on sale, letters to Santa and to God, wedding invitations and live chickens that pass through the post office each day. Life is complex and you have to get out of your home, your office, your cocoon, to open your mind to what is and what might be.