Roosty

From time to time, I mention 'the farm', our little project...or lack, thereof, our pilgrim's progress. Out here, in the sage brush, now ocean'd with verde, the green of the desert people, I watch the gathering's of things. I set out pans of water, one low, one high. Low, is for the squirrels, bunnies, mice...anything athirst. The high, is for the birds, and they come...slowly cycling every color, throughout the year. We are currently at plover brown, quail rust, and bluest azure...on kohl black butterfly's wings. The desert willow's gown of sweet orchid flowers, in pink and white...are going going, almost gone. The flower of the cactus, too is leaving us...with all its fruit behind, that we may taste of it. The wild, has come close...you might say, 'encroaching' upon us. But we do not feel this way, for we welcome every creature, and...they know, of no harm here...nor do they aim to harm us. I cast seed to left, to right, upon the sand, for them...and they come, and lay in the little shade...they may find. Lizards come to sip the nectar of the well, the wild rabbits, desert squirrels. All, find here, a sanctuary. The duck, that was ill, is now completely well. The hatch of bunnies in our bathroom grew, now half size, and moved to great outdoors. The hens are happy...now full grown...cooing that happy, 'egg laying' song, they do...and 'roosty', the rooster...the only one, doesn't 'coc a doodle doo'...yet, but he sure is a pain in the ass. His latest adventure...sitting on the gate...'threatens to jump'. I put my chest to the gate. He puffs, and puts his chest against mine, 'mano e pojo'. He say's "Hey! Gringo!" I poke his little belley. He falls off the gate, into the pen. Later...he comes to me, to ride my shoe...to peck at my pants leg...our favorite game.


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016,  Deming, New Mexico

Art: Friedrich Johann Voltz, Pesquisa