Start spreading the news
The sun rises late in Mu-Mu Land this morning. A seagull which has lost its way caw-caws as it flies in confused circles around The Hill. A startled thrush darts out of the beech hedge and a robin trills a sweet song above the stile.
Across the valley, the sad, lonesome voice of Russell's Crow, defiant and desolate, rings out around the village. I fancy he is calling for his lost soul mates, devastated by a fox last week. He cries out, like Macduff: 'What, all my pretty chickens, and their dam, at one fell swoop?'
Down the lane, Pelly Sheepwash is keeping watch over her flock and my timeshare hens. We are hoping Mr Sheepwash's thorough digging-in of the chicken-proof fence will deter this blood-hungry animal. Or maybe the fox was caught by the hunt-that-is-not-a-hunt which clattered through the square last weekend, causing me to pull a calf muscle as I turned quickly to get the camera.
And this morning, as I hobble along the ridge with the dogs, I can clearly look across to Russell's Crow's pen. Expecting to glimpse the sad sight of a solitary figure atop the hen coop, I am surprised to see what appears to be lots of white hens scurrying around him. Are they the ghosts of hens past? Zombie chickens? Are they hell as like. Replacements, that's what they are. Russell's Crow wasn't grieving, he was showing off.
It wasn't Macbeth he was quoting from. His little town blues are melting away as he makes a brand new start of it. By pretending to be Frank Sinatra. I can hear the crashing finale of Big Band music now.
'And find I'm king of the hill, top of the heap...'
That's about it
Love Maddie x