this is the view from my dooryard. it always make me think of that old walt whitman poem about lillacs blooming in his dooryard, cause that’s what happens to me. that’s a picture of my lillacs, above.
in this picture, just above, you can see the gang of two, and a single hen. this is where it all happens: murder, mayhem, sex, rape, repast. this is what i wake up to. this where me and the dog take our first piss of the morning. this is where the gang of two do their “best” work.
another small word on chicken sex, their mating rituals. there is nothing there that we, humans, might consider to be a ritual. but whatever it is, it seems to work just fine for them, the chickens. who am i, or any of us, to judge? but, it’s not like a rooster “courts” a hen in some fashion. it’s not disney sex. it’s kinda what we, in our rarefied atmosphere, might call primal.
in the dooryard, where i might throw down some cracked corn, and where me and the dog take our morning, respective, piss, the chickens eat and have sex.
it kinda goes like this: a rooster spots a hen that’s not paying attention. she’s engrossed in her cracked corn. so he jumps on her. grabs her by the neck, of course. he pins hers down and begins to rub his ass, vigorously, against hers’. the mechanics of this were explained elsewhere. anyhow, of course, she protests this violation, also in a vigorous manner, until she realizes the futility of her situation, and acquiesces. chttp://www.dictionary.com/browse/acquiesce . she’s stuck, head down, ass up. this is where the gang of two steps in, where they do their best work.
more, some other time…