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,
-- Macbeth, Act 5, Scene 5
Slim and Franke
Sunday, November 20, 2016
SPEAKING OF FOWL
Tuesday morning I decided I could not face another winter going out to take care of my chickens. Wednesday I mentioned it at the senior center and a friend knew of people looking for chickens. Thursday this young couple came to my home and happily took my chickens to their farm. Glad I didn't have a lot of time to re-think the issue or I might have changed my mind. However this morning it is 28 degrees and frost is everywhere. I don't have to go outside if I don't want to. I still have my guinea fowl but they take care of themselves.
Sixteen years of raising chickens and now the party is over.
These are the last of my free-range chicken eggs. :-(