A few days ago I was in the kitchen (imagine that) making dinner when something in the pasture caught my eye. It was an eagle going after one of our chickens. I ran out the door into the rain, paring knife still in hand, and barefoot (no, not pregnant this time). I know I've never been within 20 feet of a flying eagle. It had grabbed our chicken just in front of me! Hello, National Geographic. Although my assertive yelling won't make a 3 year old give back Thomas the Train, it certainly made the eagle drop the chicken and fly off. It landed in a tree just above our pasture and proceeded to make a new plan of attack. The chicken is on the mend. With a limp, a minor wound, and a large bald spot, she has a lot to share with the cackling hens she shares a room with. Handy husband ran outside with his gun. Lovely. We're the neighbors that try to shoot the national symbol right out of the sky. He said they aren't endangered anymore. Really? This I haven't heard.
The trail of feathers.
Taking shelter and rethinking her place on the food chain.
The beast in the deciduous tree.
He's so proud.
"Don't worry darlin'. He won't come back 'round these parts no more" (in a 4-toothed, beer drinkin', Arkansas hick voice)
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