Inexplicably Comforting

Strange, this feeling. As a white, red-combed rooster struts across the grass verge. Scratches amongst a carpet of leaves under the bare liquid amber. Hoping for grubs. Inexplicably comforting. A little nostalgic. My own chooks. Nests full of incubating eggs. Secreted away in the barn. Or under a hedge. A garden, well-fenced to protect against ravaging poultry marauders. A whole lifetime ago. Or so I thought.