I press my cheek against the bitterness of the bath's tiles, listening to your labored, wavering breaths spill from your beak. You lay in a crate above me, wrapped into the warmth of a blanket with your eyes clasped tight. Your crop is engorged with food, hardened against your feathers. Your body holds little life, you, a long-time friend, are on the brink of expiration. Within any second now, you could wisp away, far, far away, to a place not known or heard of by man. As the tears brim over from my lids, I think to myself, those thoughts are coming. The thoughts that remind you what an unethical crone mother nature depicts herself as. --- One of my beloved hens, Zinnia, is slowly passing on at the tender age of three. I spent a good portion of my evening laying with her one last time, wishing there was more I could do for her. She will be missed by her family and friends.