Slightly henpecked and loving it

A poem doesn’t need much content to survive. Its bones are hollow, like a bird’s. That’s what allows them to fly.

— John Glenday

Pindar says the poet must guard the apples of the Muses 
like a dragon, but …

if anything, we need a hen,
the creature that hatches the egg of verses:
white for the void, yellow for the words.

— Antonella Anedda, tr. Patrizio Ceccagnoli & Susan Stewart

These two old birds have earned their treats. Over the hill, due for the chop at 18 months, they have laid fourteen eggs between them in the past seven days. And what in the world is more perfect than an egg?

They really want to come indoors. Sometimes I relent and let them in. Can old hens be housetrained?

Yes, Marigold, you are the fairest of them all.

I’ll never forget Hari, my first and best-beloved hen. But these two have become very dear to us. They always greet us when they see us. They are a constant source of entertainment. And, it seems, of eggs.