It’s always an amazing gift, eggs. Each one is such a wonder, a miracle, a connection to things beyond ourselves.
But the first egg. After giving away our layers the beginning of August. The first, tiny, little gift. After giving up hope because we’re losing daylight. That egg. Not laid in a nest box, just found on the floor of the feed house, in the dark, drizzly evening after eating way too much Mexican food. After The Gentleman called up from the basement that the chickens were out of food and that I needed to come take care of it (which is very, very out of character, but it’s been a long week here in our household and it was a rainy Friday night and all), but he did that just to surprise me and be there to celebrate our beautiful little flock, and an itsy, dark brown egg in the dark of October.
The Gentleman put a new flake of straw in the nest box. We’re pretty sure Ruby (a red star) was the layer of this tiny, dark egg — well, she’s the fluffy butt you see in the nest box immediately after straw was added.
And here’s the comparison shot this morning, with a lime, and somehow, last night when I fell asleep on the couch, on of my pant legs rolled perfectly. Or maybe The Gentleman is playing another trick?