John and I moped through the barnyard kicking at fallen dead branches and throwing rocks at trees, waiting for something to happen. We continued through the barnyard and into the orchard of green apples. I twisted an apple from a laden branch and bit off a chunk - instant bitterness. I spit it out like poison and tossed the uneaten portion into the weeds.

"Be a while 'til they ripen," I said.

John stopped abruptly before entering the field of tall grass toward home. He eyed the chicken coup at the orchard edge. He looked as if he had suddenly been reminded of something, perhaps a memory of a time from summers past, perhaps of something we could do to snap the doldrums.

"He wants the windows broken," John said. He gave me a sideways glance, reading my expression. He picked up a good-sized rock and weighed it in his hand. "He's putting new ones in anyway. He told me so this morning."

I looked doubtfully at John, then at the chicken coup in the orchard shade. Uncle Bruce built the coup using dozens of dark-tinted glass squares that helped keep the inside cool in the shade. The windows were almost new, clean and shiny, not the least bit dust-clouded. The chickens' silhouettes flitted inside the coup and picked stray corn kernels off the floor and grain from the trough.

"It doesn't make sense," I said.

"Why not?" John said.

"These windows are practically brand new."

Reflections of leaves shivered in the dark windows. Spotlights of sun penetrated the glass and the chickens bawk-bawked inside, pecked at the ground and at each other. They had sense enough to keep inside when even the thermometer in the shade pushed triple digits.

John squeezed the rock in his left hand and picked up another and handed it to me. I stared at his hand stretched toward me. The gray rock sharply contrasted his tanned skin. The muscles bumped along his thin arms. The mop of blonde hair was almost golden from a month of summer. The rock in his hand was a piece of forbidden fruit far more potent than unripe apples, and his face said, Eat, eat, it's good for you. Eat.

"Take it," he said. His hand elevated the offering.

I picked the rock from his palm. His hand was rough leather from throwing rocks and whacking trees with sticks. He juggled his rock. "You go first," he said.

"Why don't you?"

He stopped juggling, glared at me. His muscles tightened up his arms and neck. The muscles grew more rigid the longer he glared and didn't speak.

"Fine," John said. "We'll throw at the same time."

I blinked in agreement and turned the rock comfortably in hand. It was a natural feeling, of perfect size, not too large or too small, a miniature baseball. My fingers gripped its imaginary seams.

"On three," John said. His arm cocked back, a gun hammer poised to discharge. Almond eyes calculated the distance to the coup - about fifty feet away - and he counted. "One...two..."

My arm whipped back. I was a fighter pilot locked on target, playing with the trigger before pulling it.

"Three!" John cried.

We grunted as the bombs arced silently through the air. We waited. John's missed wide left. I closed my eyes, thankful, as mine sailed over entirely.

John glared at me. "You missed on purpose," he said.

"What d'ya mean. You missed, too."

"I'm a bad shot. But you did it intentionally."

"You're as good a shot as me!"

"No! I don't play baseball!"

"So?"

"You're used to throwing things."

"No more than you."

He picked up two more rocks and shoved one at me. I wouldn't take it and it dropped and rolled off my shoe. He picked it up again and squeezed my fingers tight over it. I could hear his teeth grinding, but he said nothing. He faced the chicken coup, arm cocked.

"On three!" he said firmly. "One..."

I never wanted to break the windows of a chicken coup with all the chickens lined up at the trough. I didn't want to attack the coup or do anything at all. I wanted to lie in the shade. I wanted someone to play with and John was the only boy my age who lived this far out in the country. He was an eyeball taller and sinewy tough. I was pale and plump. I would be ten in the fall. I threw rocks at trees and across lakes - never at chicken coups.

"Two..."

I closed my eyes. The hand holding the rock slowly numbed and separated from my arm, and then my arm went, too. It was as if I had swallowed the sour apple numbness on my tongue and it galloped through my system like poison - spreading until no part of my body was mine.

"Three!"

The bombs were on their way and we waited for the report of shattered glass. Chickens and feathers flurried in the chaos when the rocks connected with two windows. Wings beat air and beat each other scrambling to their roosts for safety.

Already I had another rock in hand, launched it into the sun and shade and tinted glass. John's arm cocked, fired, cocked, fired, again and again as we scratched up more rocks and hurled them at the coup. Sharp irregular holes bulls-eyed every window. Shivering leaves reflected in the jagged shards still clinging to the panes.

We moved closer and threw until even the big chunks were knocked from the panes. The chickens squawked in protest. We threw because it became easier and easier the more we threw. It became war, and the shattering glass and chicken cries rallied us on and we were afraid to stop because stopping meant thinking, and thinking made you sick. You could never stop throwing once you started, not until the task was completed and the chicken coup lay in ruins.

We stood, puffing at each other, hands on knees. I glanced around the empty orchard and barnyard hoping no one saw.

Dark tinted glass dropped from the window panes and rattled on the floor. The frantic cries of the chickens slowly calmed. I approached the coup with uncertainty. The door was open; bits of glass fragmented across the floor.

Near the door was a clump of gray mottled feathers. The glass crunched underfoot as I entered and realized it was Uncle Bruce's rooster. The large Leghorn rooster lie crumpled on the bed of broken glass. I picked up his still-warm feathered body and smelled his fresh deadness that could easily have been mistaken for living. The glass was covered with hot blood that soaked his feathers and covered my hands and steamed down my arms when I picked him up.

All through the chicken coup were drops and puddles of blood. Chickens groomed themselves in their tight compartments against the back wall. They preened feathers and tended wounds. A tan-feathered hen kept alert with one eye; a crystal sword of glass protruded from her other eye. I moved closer, inspecting each bird. All had gashes on their bodies and feathers matted with blood.

"John!" I cried.

The battlefield of dead and wounded, helpless to self-defense. Why were they so calm? Why weren't they attacking, pecking, scolding, doing anything but just sitting there tending injuries? Why!

I bolted from the coup and searched for John. He was running away, running across the field of tall grass for home.

"John!"

He didn't stop.

I lifted the dead rooster to the sky, the heavens, in offering, pleading for Life to return. Its silk-feathered body grew cold in my bloody hands. Tears burned out my eyes and down my cheeks uncontrollably.

"John!"

He never looked back, running, running. He waded through the field of tall grass and crossed the lawn and climbed the steps to his house. The door slamming was a distant gunshot.