Last Night I Dreamed of Lana

The chicken wore a red dress, pearls, and a vacant, moonlit stare.

Maria filmed from above, starting on the pearls, then slowly tilting the iPhone up past the chicken’s tiny head until the full moon filled the frame. “Summertime Sadness” played softly from a phone speaker propped against a wine barrel, a little warbly, a little sad. And right as Lana sang about her red dress, the chicken turned her head and gazed up at the moon like a diva who had loved and lost.

“Okay,” Maria whispered. “She nailed it that time.”

“She’s terrifying,” Jimmy muttered.

“She’s a star,” Marlon said.

They’d already done eight takes, mostly because the chicken—named Blue Jean—kept pecking at her dress. But this one? This one had something. The way the pearls caught the moonlight. The unspoken grief in those beady eyes.

The poultry pathos.

“I’m posting it,” Maria said. “Right now. No caption. Let the internet figure it out.”