Where's the chicken?

There's a few things that happen on my commute every morning, without fail.

First, I see geese flying toward the river, usually in full V formation. This morning? Check.

Then I'm surprised by the big ugly billboards again-- I come over the hill, and "Aw shit! What are those!?! Oh yeah. Those." This will one day fade. But this morning? Check.

I forget whether I've gone through the one tunnel. The one, solitary tunnel that it looks like they had to pile dirt on top of to create said tunnel. It's pretty forgettable, but it's at the crucial halfway mark. This morning? Forgotten.

And finally, every SINGLE morning, I find myself behind a chicken truck. Usually stuffed with white broilers breeders; once the truck was empty, but on its way to be filled, I assumed. Lots of white feathers on the car, depressing promises of never eating chicken again, or at least curbing by appetite for them. My first experience with one of these trucks was the cause of my vegetarian streak in middle school. This morning? Ahem. This MORNING? Hello? Anybody? Bueller?

Guess the birds are on a break.