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#hens
Outside, a haze of mist pins the cold to the ground. Moving through it gathers the moisture on my brow and it drips, so slowly that it gathers the heat and salt from my skin and it feels familiar, as familiar as my own tears. So familiar is it that it's almost a comfort and I do not wipe them from my cheeks. The heavy air muffles sounds, transporting me back to my childhood when broken ears muddled every note, and I am lulled, my walk sways, my coat warms, and the slow shuffle through grass in my worn, leather boots, becomes as comforting as the gentle undulation of a rocking chair or a mother's womb. A healthy musk wafts upwards when my boots cut through the hay on the floor of the coop, and the content clucking of the hens encourages me, my hands rooting through the wood shavings, and there they are, smooth and shaped to perfection, the rich brown that makes my stomach grumble in anticipation. I place my treasures in the folds of my skirts, and turn to leave, sighing as I acquiesce to a return to a harsher realm, far beyond my dear, grey faery world, with lichen-covered tree bark, and wordless creatures for company.
0
Jan 19, 2018
Jan 19, 2018 at 6:52 PM UTC
emily-miller-1
Egg-Gathering
Outside, a haze of mist pins the cold to the ground. Moving through it gathers the moisture on my brow and it drips, so slowly that it gathers the heat and salt from my skin and it feels familiar, as familiar as my own tears. So familiar is it that it's almost a comfort and I do not wipe them from my cheeks. The heavy air muffles sounds, transporting me back to my childhood when broken ears muddled every note, and I am lulled, my walk sways, my coat warms, and the slow shuffle through grass in my worn, leather boots, becomes as comforting as the gentle undulation of a rocking chair or a mother's womb. A healthy musk wafts upwards when my boots cut through the hay on the floor of the coop, and the content clucking of the hens encourages me, my hands rooting through the wood shavings, and there they are, smooth and shaped to perfection, the rich brown that makes my stomach grumble in anticipation. I place my treasures in the folds of my skirts, and turn to leave, sighing as I acquiesce to a return to a harsher realm, far beyond my dear, grey faery world, with lichen-covered tree bark, and wordless creatures for company.
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33
There is incessant noise in the city—as if the blinding light blocking out the sky was not enough. They never spread their wings, but oh, do they spread far and wide; but their songs are nothing to shake a tail-feather at. The squabbling and screeching of fighting roosters, the mimicry of baby cockatiels finding their voices, the chattering of gossiping hens, hawks that stalk the night only to swoop in screaming at the first sparrow to cross their paths, the mourning doves who wake alone to cry and moan their songs of melancholy. They remain awake and call out into the night longer than the old owl in the park. The ****** of crows bear witness to the clamor on this night; looking on— as the Eyes of God— in disgust and judgment. These tall, fleshy creatures see fit to complain of the calls of pigeons and gulls when their noise is the farthest-reaching plague that keep all awake at night.
0
Mar 23, 2015
Mar 23, 2015 at 11:05 PM UTC
blackcrowking
City Birds
There is incessant noise in the city—as if the blinding light blocking out the sky was not enough. They never spread their wings, but oh, do they spread far and wide; but their songs are nothing to shake a tail-feather at. The squabbling and screeching of fighting roosters, the mimicry of baby cockatiels finding their voices, the chattering of gossiping hens, hawks that stalk the night only to swoop in screaming at the first sparrow to cross their paths, the mourning doves who wake alone to cry and moan their songs of melancholy. They remain awake and call out into the night longer than the old owl in the park. The ****** of crows bear witness to the clamor on this night; looking on— as the Eyes of God— in disgust and judgment. These tall, fleshy creatures see fit to complain of the calls of pigeons and gulls when their noise is the farthest-reaching plague that keep all awake at night.
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