I go out to the coop in the morning. My feathered girls see me coming through the window and by the time I reach the door, they’ve worked themselves up into an almost-frenzy, so excited that I’m on my way to free them from their evening confines out into the bright world filled with dirt to scratch and bugs to consume. I open the door and they burst out akin to thoroughbreds breaking the gate. They mill around my legs a little while, chattering about their evening and wondering upon the eventuality of forthcoming scratch. I scatter a handful of grain on the ground, it’s like chicken granola bars; sort of good for you, but yummy. My girlies fall silent, hoovering up their treat and only occasionally squawking to each other to move over.
With my feathery girls occupied and content, I step into the little coop. From the little nest bucket filled with pine shavings, I pick up my gifts from my girls. There’s 3 smooth, freckled eggs in varying shades of brown; one is still almost hot from one of my gifters’ insides.
I stop and savor the feel of the warm eggs in my cupped palms, and the joy I feel only momentarily overtakes me. Contentedness hums through my being, and conquers and quiets the monsters within. For a few moments, my better angels’ triumphant harmonies drown out my inner demons’ glass-half-empty grumblings. I close my eyes and squirrel away the goodness for later weathering of inner storms. Who knew that 3 fragile vessels of protein, meant for bodily sustenance, would also carry such healing power for the soul?
On my way out of the coop, with a half grin, I whisper to myself, may this never, ever get old.