Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow Creeps in this petty pace from day to day, To the last syllable of recorded time; And all our yesterdays have lighted fools The way to dusty death. Out, out brief candle! Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player That struts and frets his hour upon the stage And then is heard no more: it is a tale Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, Signifying nothing. -- Macbeth, Act 5, Scene 5
Frankie and Slim
Saturday, December 10, 2005
SNOW DAYS
All of the chickens were alive last night. The baby chicks were a concern for me and they are doing better than any of the others. The big chickens seem to simply be surviving and looking out of the house at me as if to inquire, “What the hell is all this cold about?” But the chicks are running around cheeping and eating and driving the others crazy. They seem to like the cold because they can get under mama an nestle in her warm feathers anytime they want. It’s like staying home with children on a school snow day. The big chickens have all my sympathy now.
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