A Handful and a Box Full
Two collections. A handful and a box full.
Ella's hands holding one days worth of eggs. We know which egg comes from which hen. I'll list them starting with the darkest one on the left, in clockwise order: Bertha, Buffy, Spangler, Cuckoo, Plain Jane #1, Plain Jane #2, and Amelia. The little tiny egg, which had us laughing out loud, we think came from a wild bird, possibly a sparrow or a finch, that found itself in the coop. Maybe the bird was tired and haggard, worn out from a life of wildness, yearning for domestication. Or maybe it was a practical joker who is still giggling at the irony of that tiny egg in a nest with the rest.
When you collect the eggs you know which were recently laid. They fill your hands with a soft warmth, like smooth, heavy mandalas filled with the radiant heat of the cosmos.
The box holds forgetfulness and regret; blood and feathers and death. We absentmindedly left the chicken coop unlocked one night. The next morning, when doing chores, Maret came upon the carnage. Some animal, probably a racoon, had raided the coop and killed four of the hens. We lost Speckles, Spangler, Amelia, and a Plain Jane. The box was heavier than I expected. I buried them out back.
Friday, June 3, 2011 at 10:31AM
Reader Comments (2)
very sad. My dad farmed and hunted for years in these areas. He says the tiny egg is from a Pheobe. What a lovely name. Reminds one of Pheobe Snow How fitting eh?
He sees Pheobe nests in some of your other photos. Likely the poor thing got tipped over in wind, too hot...
I think the prairie is always a little too something or other: hot, humid, windy, wet, dry, sunny, gloomy, sad.
Dad says sparrow eggs are speckled with brown on white. I think he probably has eaten lots of different eggs during depression years. and maybe a raccoon or two.