The air’s brisk and clear. Ice traces the edges of puddles. My woollen sweater, a thick cable-knit, Mitch’s hand-made contribution, is cosy and comfortable.
Extra nesting boxes constructed. An extension to the chicken run almost complete.
A good morning’s work…
And I can feel a coffee coming on…
Strolling into the kitchen, I’m not particularly intending to be quiet, but at the door, mid-stride, I halt…
And there it is. The sight that I, and the rest of the male Family members, have learned means…
… Something…
Three red-topped heads, clustered together over the kitchen table. Mitch speaks rapidly and quietly, a mug of her mint tea cupped between palms. Beth holds another. Charlotte"s mug drifts coffee-scented steam, but sits untouched beside her.
Decaf?
Three heads. Whispering and
