Tuesday, March 22, 2011

Breakfast


A raindrop splashed on the back of my neck and unraveled down my shoulder.  Cold.  Unhappy.  More drops splattered across the roof and banged the windows.  Thunder grumbled.  It was one of those March storms. Winter's last tantrum before ceding to spring.

After waiting for a break in the rain, I decided to brave the walk up the steps, across the path and to the chicken coop.

Inside, the girls squawked and scolded when they saw me.  It's rained for days, the Barred Rock reproved.  Make it stop, blinked the sweet Buff Orpington.  Any worms, wondered the chunky buff Cochin.

Ducking under the eaves, I refilled their food - pitifully low.  Freshened up the water from the faucet - though I might have just held it under the sky.  And tossed in a handful of greens, some strawberry caps, and last night's pasta leftovers.  The brown Welsummer beaked out a piece of spaghetti.  Chickens are just like people, I mused. They like the carbs.

Locking the door, I patted my dog's bobbing head.  He eyed the hens hopefully but I locked the run instead.  It was too muddy for even their dinosaur feet today.

I unscrewed the latches on either side of the back of the coop.  They keep the raccoons out at night and help me, and the girls, sleep easy.  Coaxing the water swollen door down, I scooped some dampened shavings out - wondering where the water had leaked in.  Then, I saw them.  Three eggs.  Various shades of brown.  One round one - a golf ball that the blue Cochin always lays.

Reaching in, I cupped the eggs.  Still warm.  Sunshine on a cold and rainy day.

Breakfast.

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