I spent most of Wednesday splitting wood in anticipation of the winter storm, just to make sure I didn’t have to trudge up to the sawn but unstacked stuff in the woods in the middle of the snow. We now have tidy stacks of dry split firewood on the front porch and just inside the front door. The one on the front porch comes just to the bottom of the window, so the chickens can perch on it and look in to the room I use as a studio.
RANDOM CHICKEN ONE: Looks warm in there.
RANDOM CHICKEN TWO: Skinnerbox says they give her chapatis. Cornbread. Omelettes.
CHICKEN ONE:How do we get in there?
SKINNERBOX:You have to be born hatched into it. Plus, I don’t shit the floor very often.

Yesterday was nasty cold for around here, and after all the woodsplitting, I was sort of drifting around, stunned. I don’t get sore so much anymore as enter a coma state. Balto the cockatiel was following me around, officiously. Measuring me for a box.
“You don’t look good, old man. I watched you having that nap. Apnea. You need to lay off the dairy products.”

It’s the short days when the animals start talking to you in a language you can understand.