The blackness was punctuated by white feathers drifting until they stuck on the tar-like surface of a wall, beam, or manure pile. I felt paralyzed momentarily, scanning the ground for a solid place to step and finding none. On every feather-covered pile of feces, there were solid masses of the shiny black beetles. There was no place to look away from the abhorrent scenery. The hot, dense air did nothing to ease my discomfort and the knowledge that I was inhaling chemicals like ammonia and methane didn't help either. Finally, I shifted my weight and tested a spot, stepped forward, and found myself ankle-deep. I realized that there was no easy way through. Adam, Melanie and I trudged toward the ladder leading up to the cage level, often stopping to free a foot from the gripping suction of the muck.

Phoenix sinks into the manure

Slight movement on the ground, more urgent than that of the amoeboid insect swarms, caught my eye. All that was visible was a hen's head and neck, weakly bobbing and stretching to keep her open beak from being submerged in a puddle of black ooze. Our careful footsteps were forgotten as Mel and I moved toward her. She barely moved as Mel squatted and carefully pulled her from the muck. She looked like an oil spill victim. Only her head and neck were distinguishable as parts of a chicken. Her feathers, wings, and legs were a single mass of sticky black glue. I poured some water into a container and extended it uselessly, then offered a few drops through a syringe. The hen didn't seem to notice. Her beak opened over and over, trying to pull in a breath that would not come. I felt my own throat grow tight and tears came to my eyes. I opened the door of a carrier and Mel eased her in backwards, laying her limp body inside.

Hours later, when we arrived back in Rochester, she still had not moved. Determined that she would rise from her would-be grave and survive to see a life of sunlight and open space, I had given her the name Phoenix. My assertions to her about her survival were met only with weakening gasps for breath. As I waited on hold with the emergency vet, I saw that her exhausted body had let go; that gasping beak had finally closed.

Sadly, Phoenix did not survive the ride home.

I looked at my hands as I hung up the phone, let them fall back to my lap. I was thankful that Phoenix had not disappeared into the manure pits at Wegmans Egg Farm. She held on long enough to share her story with me and with others who can help all the hens who were left behind. — Megan Cosgrove