Epitaph

Abstract

The chicken house was across the garden and on the back side of the barn lot. Starting across the garden, Pop was joined by Old Lead, the hound belonging to his son, Clifford. Old Lead, never considered a brave animal, had certainly shown no interest in any noises coming from the chicken house and certainly did not consider it his duty to lead this expedition. Instead, he trailed along behind Pop, more from curiosity than anything else. A full moon brightly lit up the night. Pop crouched low as he crept along the garden path into the barn lot, peering as best he could with his foggy vision, trying to catch a glimpse of the culprit or varmints. If something was, indeed, in the chicken house, he wanted to be prepared. Nearing the chicken house, he heard only the normal sounds you would expect to hear from several chickens on a roost—no hint of any varmint(s). But you never knew, maybe something or someone was waiting to ambush him, so he very cautiously slid the latch and very quietly and slowly opened the door. He was practically bent double as he leaned forward to catch a view of the contents of the chicken house. In leaning forward, his rear was fully exposed with the flap of his long Johns hanging down. In this very tense situation, Old Lead saw the view and chose that moment to "cold-nose" Pop! The combination of tension and the utter surprise of a cold, wet nose in the crack of his posterior was too much. Pop let out a roar and pulled the triggers on both barrels of the shotgun. The blast killed more than half of the roosting chickens and left a gaping hole in the back of the chicken house. Epitaph I think the leaves have chosen, my brave friend. They patch the old tin roof with berry blue. I taste our epitaph in chimney smoke. Queen of the meadow, where has August gone? —Sandra Fowler 20 ...