The Farmer and the Chicken

Image: Coming Home With Stories (c) R. Sievers 2005

Dawn entered the day about an hour ago. I’ve been watching my neighbor across Risto Road attempting to herd a black and white striped chicken into a corner of a pen. The woman’s long braid swings rhythmically as she chases the hen. She has a long wispy stick in one hand, prodding the roundabout runner. In the other a hand she holds an amazingly wide butcher knife. Shining. When she has the foul seemingly cornered, the hen skirts around in frenzy. This happens over and over again. It’s an amazing dance to observe. Apparently all the other farm creatures think so too. They lean through their barbed wires watching with quizzical expressions. Everyone knows the outcome, whether quick or strenuous. Even the chicken knows what is coming.

I sit in my window again recording whatever skirts through my fingers. I move slow and steady across the page. I don’t wonder if chasing after words is worth the effort. I only want to catch my prey. I have a pen in my write hand. In the other hand I have a sharp honed blade, leaning out from last nights dreams.

I’m going to write again and again. It is my ritual. It is my dawn. It is my time to chase the feeling around the page until I capture the quarry. It’s a primal rite, just like the one I see across the road. All the penned up dreams and stories watch from the dark corners of the cold morning cabin. The young revelations are lurking under the old lumpy bed. A song roosts on the fir branch outside the frosted window. They are all curious about the chasing dance occurring at my desk. They know the outcome if I will just keep at it. They know that someday they will be next. And I’ll take them with gratitude in my herky jerky grace.

Someday my life will be quarry for The Beloved, who stands outside of time. All my stories are building me cell by patient cell, until I become more than myself. And I’ll be reborn on the sharp edge of rough love.

I look again into the barnyard down the hill. The curious gawkers have gone back to their cud. The geese and ducks have ceased their squawking. The dogs are fast asleep. A light burns now in the farmer’s kitchen window. There is fresh smoke rising from her woodstove. I watch, like the Spirits watch all of us. We are all interested in the raw integrity of how life chases after life in order to live.

I am grateful to be a player in this scene. My pen continues scratching the dust of these pages. With one eye I search for precious kernels. With the other I watch for the bright glint of the sun slicing through the mist.

What are you chasing after today?
Is it life?
Is it worthy of your effort?
What stories will you bring home when the silver light falls?

Rick