A few days ago,

I noticed a red-haired fairy sitting on my kitchen counter.

She appeared quietly focused, oblivious to the bumps, thuds, creaks and voices of her surroundings.

.

.

.

Fearful of piercing her ethereal absorption, I crept closer on socked feet to spy.

.

.

.

Her eyes moved from the window to her lap, her writing instrument scratching softly on the flesh of a long-dead tree paper.

.

.

.

I risked all to edge closer.

.

.

.

I must know what inspired this degree of keen regard . . . . .

.

Of course . . . . . . . it could only be a chicken.

A real-life chicken drinking from a fictional fishy pond.

While Rachel perched at the window, others in our house were taking a more physically active approach to their day.

Lincoln did push-ups and Prairie . . . .ahem, I mean Bonnie, the horse, galloped.

Wondering why Sidney was so quiet, I rotated my camera around until I found him.

He looks quite content, studying his drivers’ ed manual, dreaming about the days when he can drive to the grocery store to purchase Ben & Jerry’s Karamel Sutra ice cream to bribe his mom.

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