chickens and flyswatting y2k
A letter to 6 year old Julia in Kansas
Sunday, Nov. 7, 1999
The Great Divide
Good morning Julia.
I'm sitting here in the cool dawn, sipping a cup off coffee, listening to the chickens crow and being heckled unmercifully by the blacks for favors. The two polish roosters, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, are beginning to try their hands at crowing without notable success. They tend to be off on their time and they cut the crowing short of the ur-ur-urrrrr of the more mature birds.
The silkies are bullying the blacks away from the tidbits of apple and the two potatoes I've thrown to them, while the guineas are dominating one of the potatoes entirely, gathered around it with focus. Lady MacBeth and the well-coifed little red Cornish hen are struggling to establish their rightful place in chicken society, coming closer now and competing with some enthusiasm for bits of food.
The summer's about run out of grasshoppers and bugs, even if the chickens hadn't cleaned them out a long time