I dropped a fresh egg,

on the barn floor,

and cursed my sloppiness.

the hens seem to rush from everywhere,

a rainbow of colors, in a blur

an opera in my barn

on the cold concrete

I had the camera,

dropped to the floor,

and watch a beautiful ballet,

an opera, a dance, a

choreographed barn event,

complete with sun and barnlight,

feathers, waddles and claw feet.

and it was beautiful,

and I loved it,

and to some,

this is cannabalism,

eating your own young

but really, just food

if you are a chicken

and there are no moral choices about food,

and the egg was soon gone,

without a trace

and lying on the cold barn floor,

wishing I had something more than cold concrete under me,

I was grateful for another day.

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