the dead hen and the pumpkin
I got home from work a little later than usual tonight, around six. Because they're calling for snow showers I had a lot of farm prep to do in case the morning met me with a layer of powder. For starters, I had to unload all the feed and bales from the back of the truck. If I left them out overnight the moisture could ruin the grain and make the bedding useless. So I shoved two 65-pound compressed bales of straw off the back of the bed. I took big piles to every corner of the farm and made thick, warm, beds for every hoof, rabbits, and chicken coop. Bags of feed were then hauled to the safety of the porch. Wood was chopped. I am getting to be Hell at chopping.
It was dark when the farm chores were finally done. I had brought two large armloads of wood inside, and was starting to get big ideas about pasta. (So big I could hear and feel my insides wail.) Understandably, thanks to all that business, I was distracted from the last thing on my list. Before I headed in for the night I needed to cut and carry the last pumpkin in from the garden. The behemoth in question was wider than two volleyballs and only half-oranged. I had let it sit out in the sun, hoping it would turn in time for Hallows, but if I let it stay feral the monster would be covered in snow instead of changing into fall. It was time to bring him to the porch.
I walked out in the blue-dark and sliced the vines with my knife. I lugged him up over my shoulder and breathed heavily as I carried him out of the garden. The stew-pot of hunger, chores, and desire to be inside made him seem even larger than he was. As I walked through the garden gate I looked down at the little brown dead hen I had placed there earlier that morning. I sighed. I set down the giant pumpkin and delayed my meal a little longer. I carried her softly over to the compost pile within the garden's fence and set her among the graceful decline. I'd raised that bird, eaten her eggs, and she served this farm well. She deserved a few moments and a proper spot in the quiet of the pile. Now she'll become next year's vegetables. I said a hushed thank you, heaved the pumpkin back over my shoulder, and went inside.