Purse notebook, May 2nd 2017
I open the window – chill within, hot & cottony without. The good smells of tree wood and cut wood; they are extending the chicken condos and somehow affecting the pool (“I don’t know what they’re doing,” asserts the kid). The chickens are fretting like coyotes – long laughs followed by smokers’ chuckles, hugely involved ornate borborigmo. The trees, mostly Live Oak, leaves hard and curved like olive trees’, click as they shake and sound like sequins.
The brown chicken met with misfortune this Sunday. Let out to wander while the men worked on the pool, the brown chicken “was spooked and lost her balance” or was simply overcome by fear, found still warm but dead, without feathers disturbed. Kid kind of wishes it was the black one, whom she likes least.