I awoke to 3 inches of snow, and now I am watching it still come down. It is one of those mornings where I feel like I am 12 years old again.
I don't wanna. Shuffling my feet through the house, my hands making odd limp gestures at my side as I fling my shoulders about. Boots thump on the floor, as I huff at my chores. Ungrateful mutters escapes my tight lips as a thrust my boots on, a motion better used for pulling fence posts. Stomp stomp stomp, heavy snow boots smack the floor, the door slamming behind me as I push my way through the white-out. I bet if I fell down and froze to death, no one would care or notice. A once repressed teen angst bubbles to the surface as I call out DDDDOOOOOOONNNNKEY! Smokeysmokeysmokey, trinatrinatrina, Arrow. chickchickchickchick! Making a cursory head count of who I still have running for their food, I eye FogHorn LegHorn with disgust. You would kill me if you could.
You're a little challenged, aren't you. I mutter my disgust. He shakes it off, and crows as though he was king, and he meant to do that. With a shake, he flies up on the fence, a perch were he can eye me, and threaten me easily.
The ice is broken, and I trudge my way back through the gate, still keeping an eye on that rooster. Even my leather work gloves can no longer hold back the bitting cold. Just as I close the gate, Foghorn Leghorn makes one last desperate attempt to dispatch me. His regal attitude towards my leaving the pen, shows that he is the victor in this life or death struggle that is replayed daily.
Blinded by the snow, I manage to slowly find my way back inside my warm house, where coffee is waiting for me, hopefully.