In the fresh morning air, just before what is considered a decent hour I had a visitor. A little white hen peered over my door frame and through my coffee steam. Gave me a good once over, looked me up and down, in my own house. The dogs were quiet, still sleepy, Lola on my lap and Julius spread out at my feet. They didn’t bat an eye. She was the colour of cold cream and just as cool, her stare unswerving and assessing. She moved from me, dismissive, to stare with fascination at first one dog and then the other, turning her head to the side to better capture them. Before today I would never have imagined that a hen cold be curious!
I could just hear her hennish thoughts – lucky animals, safely owned and fed, not having to scratch for a living. There was the wistfulness I have only ever seen in a married woman and mother looking into a single girl’s life – the freedom of one’s own thoughts before laundry and nappies and a husband takes over. In a hen. And then, as if to prove my thought true, in fluttered her Rooster, young and proud and a right pain in the ass, tormenting and squawking her out of our moment.
She fluttered off at full hen-speed with him pestering behind her tail. Following her with my sleepy eyes I caught a flash of white. A long anticipated one. A single, clean, pristine orchid bloom.
Smiling and grateful sat I, coffee in hand, writing about the Light as my morning glided on dressed flawlessly in white.