In the morning I wake to the sound of the chickens outside of my bedroom window. The rooster doesn’t crow at dawn, not our rooster. He crows around 10 or 11 pm, and at 3 or 4 am, and we joke that he’s just dimmed the lights and poured the drinks and is cawing “Paaa-rty!”
Outside of my bedroom window (my wagon window? my bed window? the window in my wagon next to my bed?) the chickens are pecking at an old block of Styrofoam. Little white balls litter the ground around it, and every morning their tracks in the snow run straight from the compost heap behind the house to the Styrofoam block. Dessert?
I looked it up and according to People On the Internet this is normal chicken behavior, and it doesn’t hurt them. I hope that chickens are one of those species of animals that could evolve to digest all the horrible things we (humans) are leaving behind. All the same I wish the stuff didn’t exist, that I wasn’t insulating my wagon with it (the red wagon is insulated with expensive organic flax that I wish I could afford for the green wagon), and that the chickens weren’t slowly pecking it into smaller and smaller pieces.
Since the “congratulations, you’re allergic to soy!” bomb dropped and I gave up soy milk, I’ve been craving cheese. I woke up thinking about cheese. Not once, not twice, but for an entire week. So, since I always give my body whatever it tells me that it needs, I have spent the last two days gorging on dairy and wondering how the hell I will be able to afford the beautiful, delicious, local farmer’s market products that I would like to limit my gorging to. But I look at the chickens and think, perhaps their eggs are the answer. However, the last time I checked, eggs made my stomach wax volcanic. Oh glorious omlette, send me a sign!
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