A warm summer day in August. The Passenger spent its first eight hours in a windowless, air conditioned office, communing with a keyboard. Comfortable and enjoyable, but sleep inducing.
Upon arrival at home, emails needed responded to, which meant more screen time.
Then, as day waned and the blazing sun began its downward slide, time to hasten to the hens. "Down the road and down the road she went" as Bunny did in the Little Golden Book. They would be waiting for their daily release into the meadow, to snip grass blades and clover leaves, and snap beaks at insects on the wing.
Rounding them up into their enclosure for the night, away from hawks, weasels, coons and such, took a bit of persuasion. Therefore, a treat was in order, to lure them back in more easily. Having done this the first few times she was brave enough to turn them loose, they now expected the offering of a delicacy as a matter of course.
This time? Milk on the south end of fresh, absorbed by old bread, flavored with a smidge of salt and pepper. And a few ripe tomatoes from the volunteer plant that took up residence in the garden.
But first, to unlatch the gate, refill water and feed buckets, gather eggs. Then putter about the meadow's edge while the cluckers perambulated, conversing among themselves contentedly.
The last few days, she had spent this time pulling tall weeds and tough fall grass away from the barn wall. A few of the younger hens, rather trusting they seemed to be, had noticed. Especially noticed that crumbly brown dirt being exposed, and even more especially, bugs and beetles, arachnids and annelids.
So much so, that now they worried around her ankles, eyeballing her inquiringly, and making pointed application for more of the same. So much so that every time she reached for a handful of greenery, brown feathered necks and pecking beaks immediately stretched in to participate. Moving slowly, talking quietly, it was such fun to explore with these fowl friends.
"...with a cluck-cluck here and a cluck-cluck there, here a cluck, there a cluck..."
By now the Trucker was checking in from points west.
Is the Working Girl back home? he wondered.
Yep, she'd been. But not at the moment.
Hen-rietta, Harriet, Hattie, Hester, and me are weeding. Seems it's now my job to unearth crawlies for the ladies....
You could bring them up to help you in the garden, he suggested.
That was the next task on the list. But no, the feathered folk wouldn't travel well.
I wish!! Tried to get a photo of a crawlie but SuperBeak here was too fast. Talk about things that wiggle and jiggle inside her.....
And the Trucker sent back a laughing face emoticon. He was thinking what she was thinking, the little story book and song that their children had so enjoyed in years gone by.
"There was an old lady who swallowed a fly.
I don't know why she swallowed a fly, perhaps she'll die.
There was an old lady who swallowed a spider, that wiggled and jiggled inside her
She swallowed the spider to catch the fly.
I don't know why she swallowed a fly, perhaps she'll die.
There was an old lady who swallowed a bird.
She swallowed the bird to catch the spider, she swallowed the spider to catch the fly..."
And so forth. Well, Hen-rietta had swallowed the fly and the spider, though being a bird herself, that is where the song application stopped.
But apparently she had taken too long with the weeding and texting, as a few hens were beginning to wander back into the enclosure, tip their heads, and point an eyeball at their old-and-as-yet-empty cake pan. The heads then tipped toward the Source of Treats, and beady eyes studied her while quiet conversations ensued among them. "Awwwk, waaaaawk, waaaawk...."
As she walked back to the barn door, hens fluttered in from all corners of the meadow, colliding and jostling through the gate to cluster underfoot. And there was always that one who parked IN the cake pan to get first dibs on the choicest morsels.
A feast, and surely Hen-rietta is getting a better deal than Harriet....neither can eat without worrying about her neighbor's portion...
Bowl emptied into the pan, she stepped back to count before closing the gate for the night. She would count heads, or beaks as it were, but none were visible. Only fluffy bottoms pointing skyward around the aforementioned cake pan. She would count the part that goes under the fence last instead.
Strutting inefficiently round the perimeter, the white Rooster was engaged in his best FogHorn LegHorn imitation, taking full credit for the repast his hens were enjoying. Now and then he pinched a morsel for himself, but mostly cared for the advertising department.
"Up the road and up the road she went," to the next responsibility.
Nailed some Lantern Flies. Now Felinius and me are hacking in the garden.
The summer's experiment was wildflowers sown in a quarter of the area. Which had grown happily, bloomed, and drooped. Too well established to pull out, and too sturdy to mow down, they required a scythe to lay them low, and a fire to burn.
Always nice to have help he commented.
Yep, and with this kind of around-your-ankles "help", a lot of driving he'd get done. Better steer clear of the scythe if she values that waving appendage called a tail.
Flaming flowers, fussy feline, she texted.
Singed whiskers, he replied.
And she brought in the last bouquet of rescued blooms for the season, to grace the kitchen table.
Now dark already. Me n the genealogy chart gonna play a lil while the sweat dries. Then a shower. You tired of the play by play yet?
Apparently, he wasn't for an hour later came the next query.
How is ya?
Ummm....don't open a can of soup for supper when the cat is listening....
It appears to sound in the feline ear quite the same as a tin of her specialty, much desired but seldom offered.
And then, Sandman wins...G'nite....love you...
And he replied, 40 miles to go before I sleep....love you...
