I call out “READY, or not, here we go!” Matching actions to the words, I dash about searching. “Where are you?” I sing out, once, twice, and then I begin to find them. I ferret the chickens out of their roosts in trees, their hiding places. I end up sticking my hands into odd spots, clambering up into lofts and trees, startling other little critters out of their safe spaces. I finally have the girls all piled back into the coop, all DOZEN of my precious, beautiful hens. I place the last one gently back into her prized spot. Night is falling, and they are quietly clucking and I can hear the rustling of feathers. “You lot are might lucky I haven’t DICED you up and put you in stew pots,” though I suspect they know, as do I, that I could never do that. I walk towards the house after securing the coop against the local predators, animal and human. I have to laugh at myself, “get a hen or two, they said… It will be fun raising chickens they promised… Win prizes at the fair…sell some eggs, Ha!” Well, I better get the DUVET off the clothes line and grab some supper. I need to sort out the egg orders before going to bed.

Georg’ann

in the liminal time between
unconscious and conscious
thoughts are softly edged
reminiscent of sand patterns
under the CLEAR Caribbean sea
QUIET but not silent spaces
that request acceptance
of what the surroundings have to offer
Burrowing into my billowy DUVET,
I listen to the cat breathe
deeply in her dream state

Heather