Maybe not, in the long run, but no explanation, no mix or words or memories or sourdough rolls can touch that central sense of purpose those chickens gave off. They believed, somehow, that they could be better than life and history, madness, fear and loathing. They had something to accomplish. They had a road to cross. It was a futile gesture, of course.
Most gestures are.
Madness can be crossed in any direction, any hour. But they had the journey, a wild, awful chicken version of the American Dream. I looked down. My fat attorney had stopped one of the chickens, and was offering him some cheap-grade blotter acid. He dropped the acid to bake on the road and some of the artier chickens sniffed about it a bit.