In the morning as they plod out of their Bottomtum hut. They relish the muck, prefer it to the dry straw I place inside. The rain pellets stand on their necks and backs, like little natural punctuation marks, but who needs words for filler?
The neck of Priscilla, so Grace Kelly like, or was Grace Kelly like a goose. I sing to her sometimes, "Beautiful old goose, beautiful old goose, will you swoon for me, twist your neck that way you do, beautiful old goose."
