Gary Margolis December 16 at 9:45am · How to Lay a Blue Egg My neighbor keeps a radio on in his chicken coop. He wants the maybe-fox gone, the wandering perhaps-bobcat. Here, in Vermont, the possible- fisher cat. There aren’t any tracks, wire-snagged fur, feathers or bones around. I think he dreamt the birds are more content listening to the morning farm report, the news they can’t understand. And before noon, Mozart, I can tell by how they waltz and twirl in the snow. In May, the minuet they do. I could be kidding you if I didn’t see for myself the blue eggs they lay late in the afternoon, listening to National Public Radio, the world-expanding interviews. Before my neighbor returns to turn it off, to lock the chickens in their dark house, so he can go back inside, believing that wasn’t a shadow of a fox he saw, a bobcat’s broken tail, the track of twilight’s unannounced fisher cat.