I told Carl that I cannot get attached to the chicks. They are most likely boys. Sure, sure. We can return them from whence they came . . . which means certain death. But, watching Toey’s attentiveness, hearing her guttural calls, and amused by the chirps and skeeterings of the chicks, how can I already be signing their death warrants?
Home sweet home and we have a lot of weeds. It’s feeling fall-ish. The chicks are boys. The hens are hiding their eggs. The cats nap. I just spent my writing time settling into my play and now the rest of the day is barreling toward me. Summertime chaos.
But this morning? The full moon set and, for now, all is well here at Darwin’s View.
Pictures, not words, must suffice for now as the clock ticks. . ..