From John Helt to racconage this morning:
Bloody Monday began with news about bin Laden's apparent demise. Then, sometime last night, a stealthy and deadly predator broke into the Oconobanks coop compound and dragged out Henrietta Hen. I have not found her carcass, but the quantity of feathers and blood and relatively small hole in the chicken wire gap between nails through which she was obviously dragged by the killer suggest that she could not have survived. The trail of feathers and blood led to the woods. She was my favorite hen, enjoyed being held and petted (sort of), and faithfully laid a small brown egg every day. Almost every day I would carry her around the yard and talk with her (she was very verbal, too) and sometimes sit with her on my lap in the sun and feed her saltines. She was very interested in my old silver and gold fillings, and would try to peck at them if my mouth was open and too close to her curious beak. Henrietta was Hulda's partner, often the two of them leaving Helen alone to fend for herself. Now we will see if the alliances shift or whether I will just have two loners. Hulda must not have been too broken up by the murderous night raid, since she laid her usual oblong egg this morning as usual. I spent an hour this morning cleaning up the compound and replacing all lower-coop chicken wire with plywood. By the looks of things (my expertise limited to an occasional viewing of CSI on TV), the operation went down late night Monday/early morning Tuesday. Nature persists in "running red in tooth and claw." Just thought I'd let you know, as CNN, Fox, BBC and Al Jazeera seem to be focused elsewhere yet today. ~ One down, two to go Our answer: Life deals another cruel blow for bloody feather-gatherer: Henrietta the Hen didn't ask for as much as she got under the 'ownership' of John Helt; a deeper interchange with a fine human was to be her blessed lot, not a hen in an egg factory, her. She went to her end a repositor of Helt-bestowed gentleness, as many of the kind words, questions, and gestures she could ken, for a hen. Alas, but not for a lack of care in establishing new digs by Pere Helt in the erroneously cited Oconomowocbanks trailer park. It has been ever thus in the world - Truth forever on the cross, sitting hens forever in invadable coops. Lightly taken not to be. Here's a man whose agrarian themes have taken him through separation from his mascotian miniature goats, numerous cats (some stray, always loved) and now, Henrietta. A beast that only wanted to live Heltian and lay eggs. Indeed, may she rest in peace. She asked not for much. The least we can do here on South Street is take down the celebratory Christmas lights from our ledgian legendary Fox. Or, maybe not? Festoon Fox may not have intentionally eaten a chicken in his entire life! Gunned down by a hunter? Nay, the lights of his afterlife will remain, methinks. Thus we humans stumble on through the maze of existence. Our condolences eggian, ovan,heartfelt, profound..... David and Dee John replies:
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