Across the Sky
On the couch, drenched in a purple sleeping bag, my daughter mutters “brothers these days!” and I have to agree. He’s a good ‘un, full bottle on the button pressing and unruffled as blue sky. I join in the niggling, first on her side, then on his and we finish all smiling and it’s one of those times (way too occasional) where I think I have it... that delicate balance between fun and progress - goading them, now, toward tooth cleaning and bed.
But then I’m in the laundry, at the end of this wet day, unloading the washing machine, planning to hang stuff inside – add to the general mayhem of being penned in. And as I pull clothes from the machine I hear a funny sound a little sort of quiet whistly cheep. I look at the dog, at the clothes, at the drawers and cupboards. I hear it again. I look in the incubator. It’s the last egg on the row, cracked about a third of the way down and I see a little foot inside.
“We’re having chickens!” I call, knowing in an instant that bedtime is now hours away.
a cold front, plump as eiderdowns,
shuffles shades of grey
time crimps like split shells