Eggs In Robe Pockets...

Dec 28, 2020
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Here’s a poem or story or something I wrote several years ago about how it feels good to gather eggs. If anyone will appreciate it, it will be one of you other crazy chicken people! 😉

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Eggs in Robe Pockets mmmm

One of the truly pure things I can count on each day is when I emerge from my little home in my heavy robe and slip my feet into clompy rubber boots and head outside to check the work of those who woke before me.

I mosey out into the side yard to the first secret, not so secret, nest. They think they're hidden and they wont go to them if they know your watching. I peak to make sure one of the gals isn't still sitting and if all is clear I sliver over, pause to survey, smile, and gather two of the four eggs. I look at them, one in each hand, truly thankful. My thumb scans their surfaces, the cream one first and then the middle brown. I contently slide them into my robe pockets. I feel them when I walk.

Next, to the nest where four hens commune under the mushrooming oak. I pluck and prize four brown ones leaving two behind. Chickens, big on secrecy, small on math. These merge slowly into their place and my gate smooths to fluid as I ooze to the final redoubt.

The lone white chicken skulks back across the road, eyeing me suspiciously as she answers the question. I pause genuinely and wait until she slips peacefully out of view before I resume the confirmation of her suspicion. I reach back into her practical fortress of briars and grass. One pretentiously white egg, softened by minuscule raised white bumps, is treasured in my hand all the way inside.

If someone asked me, "Are you a good person?" I think I would say, "I don't know. I try. I try to love God with all of my heart, and to love my neighbor as my self. Oh! And every morning I gather eggs from secret chickens and I put them in my robe pockets!"
 

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