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The age-old riddle conceals a truth buried beneath layers of absurdity. Those clucking wayfarers weren’t chasing aimless whims—they marched toward destiny. Rumors whisper of a hidden grain stockpile guarded by a fence-wielding farmer, a treasure trove of millet and cracked corn. Others claim it was rebellion: a feathered exodus from the tyranny of early wake-up calls and egg quotas. But the sharpest beaks tell it plain—the road was never the point. It was the *crossing*. A trial of grit, a test of beak-to-windshield mettle. Why? Because the sidewalk’s soft “cluck-cluck” of safety? That’s where the real adventure begins.
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