The Henhouse Farm

The Hen House Farm Ripe pragmatic pears droop in the heat squinting squirts on sun's solar face. Proud prairie dogs head for dry holes. Earth crust is baking and flaking in a dishy dollop of firey ants anticipating goals on grassy knolls. Fresh-squeezed nectar bubbles bodaciously. Meanwhile, back at The Hen House Farm, a rush of feathers softly flushes lofty eggs, hiding them inside plush, heavenly hay. The moorings of a faded barn lean slightly to the left like a pumpkin on peg-legs. Breakfast for bandits is notorously famous. The fare weathered fox is sly in sensing yellow yolks disguised in white runny coats matted in succulant straw, broken and raw. This meal is the price for taking a fall, cracked beyond repair, scrambled in oats. Presents of ponds left under planted trees, shaded skirts overflow into basking light. Persnickity polly wogs wag their flags of freedom making ripples that can cripple. Unseen bites in shelled seeds scatter over reeds when a ducklings waddle snags cat tails--it pittles then it paddles after its mother which has been smartly goosed and fattened for giving thanks to farmer Brown when instead she should have kept quiet. Such is a day in the life of the country, being the main course should not alarm her. Written March 18th, 2002 © on Mar 17 2002 03:38 PM PST   10 • 0 • 9