This bird waited patiently for me to take the picture.
Who knew? Not I. The only reason I even set foot outside was to fulfill a promise to Bryon, one I had dodged for the entire time we have been married. I, a woman who had been banned in botany, would venture into the garden to do more than admire his handiwork.
Top Gun takes pride in keeping an eye on the hens. This involves a great deal of strutting, puffing out his chest, and declaring his talent in procuring the food that magically appears in the coop and fenced-in run.
Our two guinea hens, rescued from the efforts of Toby, our neighbor’s golden retriever, have made themselves at home. Loudly and neurotically. No matter–they pitch in and contribute to egg production.
Even so, today is Sunday. A day of rest, remember? Of course. After a couple of hours, Bryon and I can admire our handiwork–the first boxed garden row planted with kale, spinach, carrots, tomatoes, and peas. There are four more large boxed rows ready for planting, but they will wait for another day.