Merry Christmas to all my loyal followers. And may a feather find it's way to you.
{Part One appears in the post below this one}.
I awoke early, at the first light. Itty Bitty was still snug under the covers, purring, and Big Tony was perched atop Martyn's head so he looked like a lead member of the Mamas and Papas.
I was excited, but also realistic that the cookies would be gone and raccoon tracks would be spattered around the grave's muddy site.
I went through the barn and there were my guards, still looking very serious about the task at hand.
"Merry Christmas! Did you see anything?"
Three sets of long ears twitched, urging me to "Go see."
I peered out from the donkey's enclosure, and saw no cookies. I walked with camera to the site, hoping to find evidence, perhaps a note, from the nightly visitor. There was no note, no human footprint of any kind. The area looked mostly like it did when I placed the ritual spread out. The beet was gone, the feather no where in site, but there was the egg, cracked.
And around the grave, small prints, some all clamoured together and fuzzy white.
I immediately suspected my charges had failed me and eaten the cookies. But I examined the prints, they were too small for the donkeys by about an inch.
Could the egg have been a message? I'm sure of it. I will consult Clara, she's a hen and I'm sure she is versed in all egg language. Like breaking a champagne glass on a fireplace, perhaps our magical guest broke the egg as if to say,
"Peace be with you, and here is to a new year of wonder, and breaking boundaries when needed!"
I looked for any evidence as I left the area, and looked up at the Christmas Day sky, and the barn roof.
And a feather fell from somewhere. From somewhere. A buff red feather, just like Clara's.
