She was the smallest, flightiest, scrappiest, and probably the oldest of the three chickens. Until the latest battens-and-netting setup, she'd flap up over the fence, then stand on the outside of the enclosure squawking to be let back in. She had absolutely no fear of Betty. Until this year, she laid cinnamon-brown eggs, occasionally with speckles.
She'd been looking unwell and making faint tweety sounds for a few days, then this afternoon she died. I just finished putting her body to rest in the compost, nestled among sprigs of scented pelargonium in a brown bag from Nob Hill grocery.
I will miss her.
In other news, Mark next door took us sailing on Saturday. We hadn't realized that the air show was underway, so there was a no-go zone from North Beach to Alcatraz, earsplitting noise, and Blue Angels flying back to back, belly to belly stunts, converging and diverging, spewing puffy white fountains of smoke as they climbed, then twisting and plummeting back down. From Marina Village to the Golden Gate bridge and home again took four asymmetric hours.
Crossposted from
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