Friday Morning Coming Down

 

© Jeanne E Webster—All Rights Reserved

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Enjoying a swing on the patio

Sitting in our little “Rose Garden”

Looking at that pale blue sky

Rain’s gone now, I’ll pardon

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Blurred with white chalky scrapes

Overhead is a see-through image

Last night’s leftover half-moon

Must ‘a lost the rest in scrimmage

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Hummingbirds all a’ squeak

A winged rush hour traffic jam

Zooming like mad robotic bees

Deftly loving the ambrosial jamb

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Gum trees shake off their sleep

Casting shade all over the hills

Cicada males not yet awake

Dreaming of their mating shrills

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Melodious call of an oriole male

Not yet sipping of my nectar

Crepe myrtle in fuchsia regalia

Rose petals, the sun rays detector

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A blue jay is squaring off afar

Probably out protecting his mate

Neighborhood roosters a’ crowing

Pleased that the showers did vacate

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A dull thumping of railroad cars

Mulishly moving down the tracks

Loaded with sooty coal, I guess

Heading up north, a’ clickity-clack

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A hummer just flew past my nose

Stopped on a dime then returned

Saw my bright red shirt, I reckon

Inching closer, drooled and yearned

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Ready to propel even closer now

Till I uttered, “I don’t think so!”

Off it flew with a squeak and snip,

In a blaze of its slinky chapeau

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Bathed my two Cavalier Spaniels

Got my front end as wet as they

But I can’t run around the yard

And shake off and loudly bray

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Certainly I knew I had better not

What would the neighbors think?

An old lady romping with dogs

Surely needs to visit a shrink

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But when those baths are done

Oh, to become a little girl again

I’d chase my tail and play dog

Bark and run after the mailmen

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I’d dance the day away… maybe

But I’m afraid this tired ole body

Would give out fast and furious

Put me to bed with a hot toddy

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My knees would grate and grit

My hips would start to grumble

The hard ground would beckon

And I’d surely take a tumble

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But jes’ for the tiniest moment

I would be all tickled and pink

For I’d soon be soaring home

In just about forty odd winks!

 

A Story of Olden Days

rooster

 

©  Jeanne E Webster. All rights reserved and observed

It had been an amusing couple of weeks, to say the least.  It all started when our neighbor’s chickens crossed the road and came to breakfast at our bird feeder.  All 10 of them—eight hens and two roosters—cleaned up the stray bits of bread crumbs and seed set out for the sparrows, juncos, titmouse, woodpeckers, and such.  No, the blackbirds were not allowed…no way!  It is a posted area.  I’d show you the sign but can’t seem to find it anywhere.

The chickens quickly had their way with the breadcrumbs and scurried back across the road, faithfully returning on a daily basis every morning for a month or so.  We eventually felt sorry for them and brought home a bag of chicken scratch. My husband was in his glory as he would strew the feed out front, followed by the throng of hungry chickens. Their owner lived at the residence but seemed to be behind on “lunch-money,” as the entire flock would search the neighborhood frantically for grub.  We don’t know what the problem really was; there just wasn’t much activity over there…except for the chickens.  Anyway, my husband waved while getting our mail one day and told Charlie we’d been feeding his chickens.  He hollered a quick “Thanks,” saying he’d gather some eggs for us in return for the chicken scratch.

Time went by and suddenly it was Thanksgiving Day.  Busily fixing dinner and all the trimmings, I noticed an egg crate by the back door as I set out some trash.  There sat 18 large brown eggs, all wet and smudged with dirt but unbroken and rather handsome.  I brought them inside and showed them to my husband.  We were so delighted at our neighbor’s kept promise.

Early the next morning the chicken man appeared in his yard, gassing up his 4-wheeler and readying to go off deer hunting.  Bursting with a ton of holiday spirit, I hastily tore off a leg and most of one breast from our roasted turkey, threw in an enormous slice of apple pie, wrapped them in foil and sent my husband out to give to the poor fellow for giving us all those good eggs.  The man was tickled pink and asked my husband if we liked venison, to which my husband replied, “Sure.”  The fellow said if he got a deer, he’d give us some.  I guess he didn’t have any luck, as we haven’t seen any deer meat at the back door.

The chickens continue to run the roads of the neighborhood, always stopping off to chomp up whatever is left over from the little birdies.  Their number is down to nine now, as one of the brown hens didn’t make it across the road fast enough.  I don’t think it was Henny Penny, as she was the fastest in the bunch.  Yes, I had gotten to calling them names already.  Makes it sort of personal, I guess.  I’m sure those black old buzzards had a heaping big breakfast that morning, whoever it was that was too slow crossing the road.  Not much left now ‘cept for a few leg bones and a feather or two.  I’ve heard the age-old question, “Why did the chicken cross the road,” a hundred times but didn’t really know the answer.  Well, now I know…to fix breakfast for the buzzards!

It’s funny…the neighborhood sparrows have come to hang out in our boxwood shrubs out front.  They hide in them til the chickens are gone then the lookout peeks its tiny head out of the green branches, does an about-face and gives the all clear.  The air just hums as they all come swarming out of their hiding places and fly over to the feeder again.  I was telling my husband, I hope they haven’t come to take up residence.    I love birds, but enough is enough.

Well, I must get to checking the crockpot for the country pork stew I set out this morning.  It’s almost suppertime.  You all have a good day now…ya heer?!