Talking to chickens and singing to myself.

I hold a french press in my left hand. I keep the lid in place with my thumb. As I walk, I am almost tap dancing. I am humming two lines from any given song. Occasionally, singing comes out. As I walk toward the bathrooms to borrow a sink, my feet barely touch the ground.

I pass a fine looking rooster standing on the sidewalk. He sports colorful and majestic plumage. This pathway is not paved for feathers and beaks... I stop to see what he's up to.

“Hey!” I begin, to get his attention. He looks at me stoically - unconcerned; unimpressed.

“You are a chicken!” I scold him, then pause...

“That is okay,” I whisper gently in confidence... “secretly, I am a giraffe.”