The Call of Peeps

When I hear the call of peeps, I veer from the dog food aisle.

I forget about the salt block for the sheep.

Instead, I push my cart toward the sound of peeps.

There, in livestock tanks, are yellow chicks and red chicks. I watch as they practice wing flapping, running, drinking, pecking, and, of course, cheeping.

"May I help you?" asks the woman in the Tractor Supply vest.

Startled, I look up.

"Just looking," I say, moving around to another tank full of chicks.

Black chicks. Barred Rocks.

I've always liked the looks of the Barred Rocks. We have an empty hen house. Maybe we could have two breeds of chickens.

But I must move on. I am on my lunch hour, and I hadn't planned to be distracted by the peeps at TSC.