Crow all you want, cock.
You can’t make the sun pierce through
this late autumn gloom.
Notes: I often stay at a bed & breakfast high on a hill on the Kitsap Peninsula. To the east are the Cascades. To the west are the Olympics. When you can see them, it’s spectacular.
This time of year, however, they are usually hidden by the fog and clouds.
The hosts keep chickens to produce eggs for the breakfast part of the business. This is not a sure thing, however. The coyotes are thick in the woods. We’ve had a bumper crop of rabbits this year, so the coyotes seem to be leaving the chickens alone.
Last year, however, the farmer lost his entire brood to a bald eagle. Our proud national bird is so plentiful out here in the Pacific Northwest that they’ve become a bit of a pest. For a couple of days after the massacre, I saw the eagle perched on a tall tree looming over the henhouse, hoping the farmer would make a quick replacement.
He repopulated the henhouse with baby chicks, and redesigned the pen to be eagle-proof. So far this year, we’ve had a steady supply of eggs.
Poetic Champions 