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It was foggy and cool, one of those slow motion mornings
where your breath hangs around long after things have been said.
Words circled like halos searching for a place to land.
The chickens were in Kenzie’s pasture.
They sometimes walk in without us knowing and settle down in the corners.
Chicken feathers might camouflage well with fallen oak leaves, but they cannot hide
from a dog who smells around corners.
We spent the morning running in our pajamas in the wet grass, setting chickens free, trying to contain the unleashed.
The day started with steam rolling off the cold metal farm fencing and a long breathy ‘NO!’
When it was all over…
There were cob-webs
In dried winter grass
Dew clung to branches
In ancient wisteria
Nature laughs and carries on
Long after our footsteps rise up from the fog
Long after our pleas crest the wings of oak leaves and fallen feathers
Long after we leave the scene
Your car rolls out of the driveway
The green door shuts.
Exit stage left…