Chickens

Impatience: what blocks you from the everyday, keeps you at a remove. From the everyday which trumps all. Which has no opinion of you.

This old dusk-dread, this no man’s land between day and night. The sky is purple, ominous. You watch the chickens pecking away at the ground. What do they care about the dusk? They’ll shuffle into their coop and sleep easy. Will they dream, as they grow their eggs? They’ll dream of sweetcorn and warm straw perhaps; their favourite things. Dreams as natural as a stream’s currents.

The chickens are joined by wild birds, attracted by the feed you’ve put out: sparrows, a wood pigeon, a brilliantly coloured pheasant. Hidden in the everyday.

To stay in the everyday: nothing is harder.

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