chickens and the weekend.

Collin, the cockerel, does not care whether it's morning or afternoon. He screeches whenever. Having said that, he likes his beauty sleep and the sun is already up by the time he starts his rant. When he will finish is anyone's guess. He's still going now, and it's lunch time. He's a stunning bird, and struts around knowing it. Trixie, his long suffering mate, tolerates his babbling, strutting arrogance with an air of patient resignation.

The weekend beckons, work and play to come. Far more of the latter, I hope.