An Evening at Bukit Plain

For World Animal Day, 2nd October

They cluck–and need care too.

πŸ“πŸ„πŸ–πŸ΄πŸπŸ“πŸ„πŸ–πŸ΄πŸ

Bukit Plain. A rural kampong (Malay for Village) in Singapore shrouded in mist, with moonlight spilled over the zinc rooftops.

The corrugated doors creaked, though no one appeared to be there.

Shadowsβ€”mismatched.

The kampong animals behaved, wellβ€”

Out of kampong sync.

Chickens huddled in groups, whispering.

Cluck.

Cluck.

Clucking.

Discussing secrets known only in Chickendom.

Cows stood silent, still.

Ghostly sentinels on a moo strike.

A lone horse didn’t neighβ€”it stared at the moon, communicating with it in series of morse code snorts.

The metal doors grated openβ€”-

Creak.

A chilly draft that snaked.

Swinging, alone.

πŸ“πŸ„πŸ–πŸ΄πŸπŸ“πŸ„πŸ–πŸ΄πŸ

The animals moved in patterns, as if to a minor beat of β€œOld Macdonald.”

The chickens sent sms messages through coop flaps.

A pig council oinked in a heated discussion.

Shadows moved illogically, one grating against the other.

Latches shifted, though no one pulled them.

Buckets tilted, filling themselves with water about to splash.

Clucks of hens bounced off the walls.

Cows banged their horns on fences, β€”judging at a tribunal.

Assessing human care and concern.

πŸ“πŸ„πŸ–πŸ΄πŸπŸ“πŸ„πŸ–πŸ΄πŸ

All the animals converged in a clearing, in sync.

Their own Kampong ceremony.

Hens flapped their wings in distended patterns.

Shadows warped, merging with the dim light of the moon.

Hooves clicked in the Old Macdonald rhythm of old. Hens supplied the cluck beats.

A creature chants.

A pig dropped to the floor, mid-chant.

Chicken scribbled notesβ€”animal Mozart.

The Kampong chief peeked outside his doorβ€”

And gawked.

Guilty.

He knew he had forgotten.

The animal orchestra reached a deafening crescendo.

Then paused.

They knewβ€”

He knew their notes.

Their needs.

πŸ“πŸ„πŸ–πŸ΄πŸπŸ“πŸ„πŸ–πŸ΄πŸ

The animal orchestra froze. Its hen conductor’s wings stretched and hungβ€”

Mid–air.

The Kampong chief approached them hesitantly, with a sheepish smile.

He nodded at the orchestra, slowly filling troughs.

The hen conductor batted him with one wing, the other raised.

He finished filling the troughs.

They slowly returned to clucking, clicking, and neighingβ€”

Their orchestraβ€”

Heard.

πŸ“πŸ„πŸ–πŸ΄πŸπŸ“πŸ„πŸ–πŸ΄πŸ

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