Psychic Chickens

Last night, the younger flock of chickens, who roam free, would not go inside. They preferred to stay low in some tall grass. I finally caught them all and put them into their rather flimsy coop, but it wasn't easy.

I said, "God natt, sov gott," and went to sleep in the second story bedroom of our house.

I slept like a person who sleeps well through life-changing weather events. (I could say I slept like a baby, but babies wake up a lot in the night and cry.)

In the morning, BAH got an email that said something to the effect that if he had planned a meeting in a certain meeting room at his work, he needed to find a new venue because the meeting room was destroyed by a tornado last night. And then it turns out there was more than one tornado. So, I slept through multiple tornados. When I was a baby, we lived right next to a highly frequented railroad line. It was sort of like that scene in the Blues Brothers where they go home to their flat. Or so I imagine. And ever since then, pretty much my whole life, I can sleep through anything.

I do remember some flashes of light last night, vaguely.

BAH has this new eye mask, which blocks out the summer light here in the Great White North. He did not see lightning due to the eye mask. I originally thought he said, "iMask" and that I was out of touch with new Apple products. So, he slept through it all, too. Little Z saw the lightning and went back to sleep.

All in all, the chickens would have been safer from tornados in that little place where they wanted to stay. The chicken coop is high up and flimsy. But it did not fail. Also, the hops poles stayed up. Yay!


Not to change the subject, but we seem to have a chicken with mental health issues. More on that later.


Tonight: floods predicted! Yay!

Perhaps next week a swarm of locusts or an army of frogs will descend upon us. And everything will be fine.


I'm sorry I haven't been writing the Paris book. It's too much work here in Spring. And there's an art show, soon! I must paint pictures. Perhaps I shall paint a picture of the chicken with mental health issues, because I have trouble describing it in words, the way it looks at me when it runs by, screaming, with those blaming eyes. Animals don't usually judge. Have you ever noticed that? But I'm quick to judge them. Here I am, calling a chicken crazy.


Good night, friends, and may you always sleep through tornadoes and awaken unharmed.

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