Mr. Moon and I worked out in the garden together today, he staking and weeding tomatoes, me digging potatoes, weeding and spreading compost by the fence to plant cucumbers and more beans. We are late on that but every garden is nothing more than a deed and a wish. As we worked, the rain came and washed over us several times and I should have taken a picture of me, muddied from head to toe after kneeling in the composty-damp dirt, sitting on it too, at some points. It felt real, real good as did the shower I took when I was done, my wrist so worn out that I could barely hold my water glass.
And can I just say that those ridiculous stickers that come on every type of fruit and many vegetables these days NEVER, EVER COMPOST OR DISSOLVE which is odd. Not even the ones proudly proclaiming themselves to be organic.
We can till the garden and find some of those stickers from long years past, as brilliantly easy to read as the day they were stuck on the banana, the peels which have long since turned to dirt.
I fed the chickens grapes again this evening, trying to get the flocks to at least become familiar with each other and I swear to you, it looked like Elvis was trying to tid-bit the young hens. He took the grapes and dropped them in the direction of those comely (combly?) virgins but they were still sore afraid. It will be interesting to see how this all works out. I have never tried to blend two flocks like this with two roosters. Drogo is showing no signs of challenging Elvis yet and that, at least, shows some intelligence. But time will tell what happens when his chicken testosterone kicks in, his spurs grow fierce and his comb grows more mighty.
The rain brought such sweet coolness and we still have the doors open and the breeze blows through this old house like the whisper of a long-time lover. The ceiling fan on the porch is on, making the windchimes tinkle. It is quiet in Lloyd tonight except for that breeze rustling the leaves. This one is enjoying the clean tablecloth two feet from where I am typing.
Tomorrow morning early I am taking her in to get her uterus removed, her shots. I know from experience that she will come home groggy, belly-shaved and stitched, sad and completely mystified by the indignity has been foisted upon her and I will hate that but it must be done. I am cooking a little organic chicken tonight and I will feed her tiny shreds of the meat tomorrow when she is ready to eat again and will try to make it up to her. May she become a fat old lady who lives with us for a very long time. May she forgive me.
It has been a good day and the wind is kicking up and the air is stirring with excited delight and the chicken, lemon juice and garlic-bathed, is starting to smell very good. I need to put my living chickens up. The garden has been restored somewhat and in doing that, I too, have been restored somewhat. The rain is coming again in fits and starts.
A mockingbird calls, thrilling and trilling. Cardinals are gathered beneath the feeder and at it. My giant begonia is blooming its tiny bloom. Maurice is at the dog door, head out, body on the porch, looking at the backyard, the birds. If she has killed more than skinks so far I do not (thankfully) know about it.
Peace. Within and without.