On the first day of summer the young lovebirds venture a rare morning stroll, having flown the coop for a bit of adventure in a lush green paradise all their own, the cocky young fellow squiring his best girl away from the prying eyes of her sisters, sunlight gleaming on his proud coppery coiffure, a pulse-quickening sight, iconic, idyllic, how could she refuse, indeed she cannot, as she bows her little red maiden’s coif, demurely casting her eyes downward, considering the grass beneath her feet, on the constant lookout for insects crawling by while preening her pristine white finery, mostly out of nervousness, mind, as she’s not accustomed to such freedoms, all this overwhelming dewiness, this newness, this green green greenness—ah, they suddenly realize I am watching, so they pretend they are supposed to be here, but of course I know better; I strain for snatches of their deliberately muffled discourse as they turn to walk in the opposite direction, like this is a perfectly ordinary occurrence versus an illicit escape…ba-gock, ba-gock, ba-goooock…we may not speak the same language, my free-ranging friends, but I shall leave your to your day in the sun, yes, here’s to this longest day of the year and savoring every bright moment, I cannot blame you at all for stealing away, with a little piece of my own heart…

My neighbor’s runaway rooster and hen, enjoying their summer morning stroll in the grass across the street from my driveway. My five-year-old granddaughter onomatopoetically refers to chickens as “the ba-gocks.” We seldom see them; their coop is tucked in a patch of woods. But we hear them “ba-gocking” throughout the day, and Rooster (we really should give him a name) never tires of crowing. He sometimes gets in a crowing match with my granddaughter, who “ur-ur-ur-ur-UUURRRRs” back at him. I hear him even now, as I write.

12 thoughts on “Escape

  1. Lovebirds caught in their moment of freedom. Love this. Maybe my unexpected guest was searching for a true love today. Love the description and not knowing who the lovebirds are until the end.


  2. Sometimes, you check a friend’s blog post wondering what beautiful poetry she is going to put out into the world, and you find yourself beautifully surprised by the prose in front of you, this unexpected gift she has given, as unexpected as the visitors she’s found in her backyard, and you find yourself searching, pecking, scratching, for all the gorgeous moments and turns of phrase, and as you peck and gobble these words you discover the poetry of it all, the flow of word to word, and as you read one more time to gather it up, you notice the absence of end punctuation and you think here, here it is, that sly sleight-of-hand that awaits her readers, and you think yes, she’s done it again…

    Liked by 1 person

  3. Ah, such an intriguing tale of love you have weaved. I started reading and about here: “considering the grass beneath her feet” I thought, wait a second, Fran has something up her sleeve, she isn’t talking about people. I loved your voice, word choices like “coppery coiffure, red maiden’s coif, demurely, illicit escape… I also love your granddaughter’s words and I can hear her “ur, ur, ur, uring” back at the rooster. Such a fun read! Thank you for this joyful piece.

    Liked by 1 person

    • Thank you, Gail; this was such fun to write. I stretched myself with some of those descriptions – even learning that a “coif” can be a woman’s close-fitting cap, perfect for the hen’s red comb! I so appreciate your feedback, as always, and hope you are doing well.


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