I arrived home before dusk, anxious in case the four new chicks a friend brought me earlier in a cat box wouldn’t know where to sleep. Little orphans, barely feathered out, rescued chicks,  released into a strange flock that morning and pecked into their order. No clue where the bedroom was and no idea which perch was theirs. As darkness wrapped itself around us, they became blind, running erratically into bushes and corners  and driven by instinct, peeping to each other in fear. The cats stalked them, I stalked them. All was terror. I cornered each bird one by one, capturing them in a flurry of feathers and squawks, their skinny feathery bodies trembling in my hands. The  cockerel tutted inside the dark coop, he wasn’t coming out for a few tearways.  The last one caught, I shut them all in safely, cussing softly,  relieved at their capture. I waited in the dark until their peeps subsided. Turning, I caught the Hunter’s  moon rising  behind me, mellow,  yellow and calm. My little drama was a scene the moon had witnessed millions of times before.