Midnight
Pretty Plume, Aguila...things happen. Six unfortunate deaths this summer, several graves dug, and countless flowers plucked from the flowerbeds to give some comfort to grieving girls.
Each time my shovel hits the sod, I'm thankful that their encounters with grief thus far have been so small, and I pray that God gives us courage to face the larger ones to come.
3 comments :
My only regret is that they didn't live long enough to go into the pot.
I had something to write, but John made me laugh too hard, and I forgot it!
Smart-aleck man.
Two more down this morning. Blah. The girls weren't awake, though, so I just threw them in the weeds in hopes that they won't ask me about Eagle Eye and Bopabewah. Naming chickens is against the rules, but it seems to happen anyway. At least Fawn's still kicking. She'll make a fine winter stew.
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