Did I ever mention that chickens are cannibals?

It’s impossible to convey the phenomenon of a three-foot pony wreaking havoc among a herd of six-foot mares. It is entrenched firmly in the category of “boring-in-a-movie-but-thrilling-in-real-life.”

On the other hand, maybe I thought also of my wife. She gives up her body for our daughter. Pregancy, birth, nursing — plenty of joys, but also plenty of pain and aggravation. And plenty of time.

Farmers seem to have an unusual fondness for dropping casual remarks that freeze the would-be apprentice from the tip of his scalp to the soles of his new steel-toe boots.

I just killed a few chicks. You’re not supposed to do that. You’re supposed to let them grow big and fat and then kill them. This is doubly true when the chicks belong to the kind soul who let you loose on his farm in the first place.

The others show every sign of hurling their sun-soaked selves back into the fields with renewed vigor (if no blog). My re-entry will be more of a gentle toss.

They merely say we should get out more, join a club…in essence, go buy some friends. Sure, if you’re stuck somewhere, you should make friends, but I think there’s more. I

“Cathedral” is a peculiarly apt name, for the giant trees are as pillars holding the windows that glow above the spacious silence and color the sun.

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