It's cold and wet and autumn. We haven't planned a thing for our dinner on Thursday. We know we'll roast a chicken. We'll have cranberries and stuffing anything else will have to be a creative endeavor, a scratched together affair from whatever we have in the cupboard.
Texans everywhere are complaining about the cold and if not the cold the drivers. They have good reason. I wouldn't venture out if I didn't have to for both reasons. This is the kind of weather that calls for a fireplace which we don't have. It calls for thick socks which, lucky for me, I do have.
The pullets don't know what to make of this sudden drop in temperature. They keep moving which I think is wise, unlike the hens who stand like stones here and there. They are puffed and so still and formidable in their mass that, I kid you not, a grackle actually stood on the back of the guinea hen yesterday afternoon.
Michael called me to the kitchen window. We stood shoulder to shoulder not believing our eyes as a grackle stood on top of Le Bête who was perched on the roost in the coop. Its birdy legs wobbled trying to find their balance and did for a moment before flying off.
Strangeness has descended upon us. Grey skies. Cold air and water dripping from eaves. It's the season to go inward, to lie dormant and recharge and dream of good things to come.