Chook, chook, chookies , sitting high on your perch.
Heads tucked in your plumage, safe from the storm,
while the easterly wind whirls and whines.
Blustery gusts, driving showers of rain every which way,
drenching your chook house, as nearby branches are bending and heaving in the storm.
But you, my girls, without a worry remain silent, without a care. Warm and dry within.
Tucked up on your perch, awaiting another day, dreaming of clucking with contentment and nesting in the hay.
What is it that happens when years are added to years, and you acknowledge finding happiness in the things of the past? The pleasure of chooks clucking, and rooster calls are remembered.
As the clucking of pullets is like music, bringing contentment and happiness and peace.
By allowing the hours to pass by, by watching, admiring nature’s magnificence, with no attention to what could or needs to be done. Priorities are changing. The rush of the world happily left behind.
As with age comes wisdom. The rush, rush, rushing of former decades is ceasing, and permission is given at last, to while away the hours, by bird watching.
As the girl who was a farmers daughter, who left the green pastures and no longer heard the call of nature is returning to discover her true self.
You can take the girl away from the country, but you can’t take the country away from the girl.
Chook, chook, chookies, sing your songs, share your secret of contentment.Tucked up on your perch, awaiting another day, dreaming of clucking with contentment and nesting in the hay.
