Crying

I helped Richard put the chickens away tonight.  I went into the chicken coop and swung the inside door shut, my mind on other things...the garden, putting up the pea fence, making jam.  

I heard the flap of wings, and the squawk.  I knew what it was before I felt it.  I shouldn't have been so scared.  But when that 10 pound chicken landed on my head, and embedded its talons into my messy bun hairdo, well.  Well.  I screamed like I was on fire.  I screamed bloody murder for my husband to save  me. 

He heard me from the green house, shrieking his name.  By the time he made it into the coop, the chicken had disengaged its legs from my hair and flown to safety.  I was standing there with my face in my hands, crying like a little girl.  My chest was heaving, the tears were flooding my face and I couldn't breathe.  I can't remember the last time I bawled so hard.  

What could he do?  He had missed the action, and he couldn't make out what happened through the squeaks and hiccups and sobs.  So he just held me.  And we just stood there.  And I just cried.