The Guilty Pleasure of a Short Day

Releasing the chickens with the dawning I winced, realizing how neglectful I have been these past few days.  They have had food and water, to be sure, but not much attention.  Early morning commitments and the aggressiveness of the garden had claimed what little focus I had mustered since returning from a short family gathering in northern Minnesota -- its burgeoning rows, ripening fruit and precocious weeds considerably more assertive than the gentle clucking of the girls.  Harvest season is in full throttle, which of course calls for some responsive attentions in the kitchen.  A morning of heavy rains yesterday had further sequestered my efforts.  Today, however, my fingers just couldn't bear the thought of another weed, and the harvest can wait a few hours.  The coop deserved some fresh bedding, and the birds had earned their own share of the harvest.

Meanwhile, the morning looked and felt like it needed to throw up.

Dark.
Heavy.
Still.
Anxious.

Every footstep kicked splatters of dew.  Even the hens seemed preoccupied with their own distractions.  I unenthusiastically dismantled the canopy frame left over from recent entertaining and stowed the parts in the shed before gathering up the poultry supplies and lugging them through the gate.  Yesterday's rain had sogged the feeder despite being under the run's cover, requiring some clearing and freshening.  The coop, itself, was begging for serious attention -- the details of which I'll spare the reader.  Those accomplished, I sprinkled in a healthy application of diatomaceous earth, fresh bedding and a scattering of scratch and then tried to buy their forgiveness with some cucumbers and bolted lettuce.

It's easy, I have discovered, to anthropomorphize the chickens -- reading into their behaviors and reactions the kinds of emotions that I would likely feel; translating their expressions into English.  It's a fanciful, even specious pasttime, I know, but I nonetheless felt their absolution.  While they pecked and scratched and hoarded and happily busied themselves with the largesse, I stiffly stowed the buckets and bags until tomorrow and, deluding myself into believing that I had satisfied the needs of the day I shuffled toward the door...

...and felt a drop.

And then two.

And with a resonant, rumbling belch the sky finally heaved its own cleansing satisfaction, erupting with the downpour for which it had been aching all morning.

And blessed with an unmerited but legitimating reprieve, I happily slipped inside.

Until tomorrow, at which time the cucumbers will have swelled beyond use and the tomatoes will be aching with the ripeness of a dairy cow overdue for a milking.

I think about that with a guilty smile as I open the novel that will be due soon at the library and pick up where I left off.