Same-same and there you go. The chickadees and cardinals mob the feeder, the chickens are scratching in the fallen, brittle pecan leaves. The other day when the boys were here, the sun was shining and there was a breeze and the leaves were falling from the crazy walnut tree which drops nuts as big as baseballs over by the neighbor's yard and it was like a performance of dancing, glinting magic. I couldn't take my eyes off of those falling leaves.
Owen was not as impressed.
Gibson was far too occupied by the chickens.
But I saw them.
We've had our pancakes (banana and sweet potato) and there are leftovers, which is good, because Owen likes pancakes, heated up with butter and maple syrup. The chickens like them cold, torn and tossed to the ground. Elvis makes his throaty sound and the hens come running.
Still no eggs. Not one egg since Trixie died.
It is a mystery and a sadness.
I don't know whether to go work in the garden or go lie down on the bed. I don't know whether I am sad or depressed or lazy or tired. The seeds I planted a few weeks ago are up, the romaine lettuce plants I bought and set in have been eaten, every one, by the squirrels. They have not touched the kale. Growing most fiercely are the volunteer green beans, up and vigorous, scattered all through the garden. I should dig them up and set them back in by the fence where they might have a chance of growing us some more beans if the first frost delays for a month or so. Yes. That is what I should do. Whether I do it or not is yet to be seen. I just don't seem to care that much. Grow where ye may, beans. Grow where ye fucking may.