Vernal Equinox, part 2

Out in the nourishing darkness tonight, I closed up the chicken's hatch to their outdoor pen as the snow pelted the lush spring grass.  Overcast skies blotted out any moonlight, and I made my way attended by the beam of a very small flashlight. A soft purr of concern rose up from the flock as soon as I arrived outside the barn, and I calmed my birds with a whispered assurance, "Just me."

 Inside the dark barn, I collected eggs from under sleeping hens, my hand slipping between the hay nest and downy hen feathers, warm as an antique quilt.  As I gathered the eggs, the hens' wings curved around my hand in a practiced move, trying to gather back in the wayward eggs. Had I rooster right now, I'd let those eggs lay where they are.  But it's all ladies in the flock.

Back outside, my dog and I stopped to experience a snow squall ride in to our hilltop from the far ridge.  A dusky cloud of snow swept over the landscape, blotting out the little I could see of the fields and fencerow trees this dark night.  My dog and I paused to drink in the cold air, to feel the frozen prickles of snowflakes on our noses, and hear that lovely singing sound snow makes as it lands on open ground all around you. The simplest prayer is just to listen.

 Good bye winter.  Goodbye snow.  I carried the basket of warm eggs back into the buttery light of the house to where the broccoli and onion seedlings grow under lights.

Welcome spring!
Betsy