on thursday morning, steve did his usual morning chicken routine, and found one of our girls limping badly. of course, it was clove. clove of the infant case of pasty butt. clove of the swallowed plastic garden tag that made her cough up blood. clove of the still undiagnosed mid-winter ailment that caused her to stand in one place, feathers puffed and staring into the middle distance. clove our fragile one. our big-hearted gentle one. she has spent the last three days and nights with us in the living room, next to the fireplace, in a dog kennel, making soft sweet sounds, and still limping badly, but, as of tonight, we think, possibly limping a little less badly than last night. our hearts are full to have her around for a while, like a daughter home from college, but our hearts are a little bit broken, too, to watch her halt across the living room floor to chase down morsels of apple and, ok, i’ll admit it, small slices of pyrenees sheep cheese from our appetizer plate. we are the worst chicken farmers ever.

wild cucumber vine wreath

tanglewood drive, shoreview, minnesota