Jumbo strolls across a yellow-sky barnyard, his bright plumage the outward manifestation of his inner state. And that inner state can be summed up in a single word: perky.
He experiences the joy of a chicken with a destination, a date to keep, a destiny to fulfill. A purpose.
The rightness of Jumbo's quest is self-evident. No, not just the rightness, but the righteousness.
He's off to submit to the canning process, an ordeal that culminates in his utter destruction. He knows that beneath its blades, its grinders, its assorted mechanisms skillfully crafted to minister to him, he will cease to be. Whatever Jumbo-ness animates his cheerful step will have vanished, leaving behind a glistening clump conforming to the inner dimensions of a thin, tin-coated steel can.
Which is why, naturally, he's in such a good mood.