Precious few sunsets have been ours this spring. Raindrops, we've had those by the bucket. But last evening, the light was so golden and sweet it seemed to cling to the edges of every leaf and blade. Our shadows stretched long behind us as we waved sapling maples above our heads like blazing torches that signaled, "spring at last, spring at last."
We played in the light as we sometimes play in the river.
The chickens were out and about -- but under shelter of the chicken-wire dome that was built to protect one of the raised beds. (Instead it was protecting the raised beds from the chickens.) The wire dome is easy to move, even if someone is nine years old. The girls hopscotch the dome around the yard, and the chickens dine on grubs and grass in one patch then another. It'll do until we get the heavy-duty chicken tractor ready.
But it seemed scant protection as dusk fell. We were finishing supper, and Blossom saw a rusty flash past the window: "Fox!" The hens too cried alarm using what the girls call their "goose-honking." Daisy Roo puffed out his feathers and crowed. The four of us spilled out of the house with arms wheeling.
What a brazen (and beautiful) creature, that fox. He looked at us. We looked at him. Daisy Roo looked from him to us, from him to us again as if to say, "Well, so? What're you gonna do about that?"