in molt.

Scampering out back in the mist of morning feathers swirl and stick to boots.

No egg for days, I admonish my girls, Is someone snacking?

Sleek burnt butter hens, pride of beauty, should be the first to go.

The irony of keeping pretty girls for the sake of their looks is not lost on me.

Open and close the freezers, calculating space but I keep my faith and patience

In their fall ritual. Beef for dinner, my lucky feathered friends.

You have till December.

keeping myself writing with Write Alm prompts

flawed

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