I step into still, cold air. Under the watchful gaze of a setting crescent Moon the creatures of the surrounding forest lay deep in slumber.

Inside the shed the hens are lined up on their perch, their feathers puffed up to preserve every morsel of warmth. Like children they scramble to the warm mash I pour into a pan. They take up their ritual chatter and delight in scratching to find the handful of cracked corn I scatter amid the straw.

The sun rises imperceptibly and a beam of light falls on the floor like God's first light through stained glass in a deserted church.

warm eggs
in my hands