Her toes are love to me. They are long and nimble, a yellowish brown with perfect nails just at the tips. They remind me of the fingers of a classical guitarist the way they move like music.
They make her who she is as she slides them sleepily around her roosting bar or tucks them in prayer and hope as she looks out dreaming her pretty chicken dreams watching clouds roll by.
Sometimes she grips my hands with them as I carry her. If you had ever been held by her you would never forget it. She is powerful, her toes long, her nails sharp yet she cradles on my hand talking her 30 sound alphabet with all its complicated phrasing as we move together hand in toes, two old friends ending our day together walking from backyard to night quarters, she speaking and humming and me doing the same.
Her toes are love to me. So too are her feathers of fifty shades, her green eyes of prehistoric color like every plant the world has ever known and her beak of chestnut brown. But mostly she, just she in her Rosey-ness is love to me. She is love when she is annoyed and karate kicks her dish and she is love when I nuzzle her neck singing her morning song with her as she sings with the voice of every chicken who ever gave utterance to their ancient and beautiful language.
She is love to me for no reason and every reason. She is love because she moves beyond the other. She is love because her breath is mine and we dance the same dance of thanksgiving on the same soil made of the same bits of stars from which we all are born.
Rosey is love because love is Rosey. The art cannot be torn from the artist, the moon cannot be dislodged from the sky and my heart cannot be moved from hers.
One day soon Rosey will move away with her chicken and human family to a new place where I cannot go. To those who care for me it’s been suggested I find a new chicken to love. One day that may find its way to me. But for now my beloveds we must face that not all love stories end happily ever after, sometimes we are not with the ones we love but we love them just the same. Sometimes we cry until we are dry and then find more tears because that is what love can look like too. I would not wish to avoid love’s pain any more than its joy.
Tonight I will sleep under a star filled sky dreaming and knowing of all that connects us. I will imagine her roosting on my hands, interwoven as we walk. I will dream this on this night and most likely every night, a dream this beautiful does not give up easily and I am grateful for that. If Rosey and I cannot spend our days, then we will spend our dreams.
What started as a diary has become a dream, what grows from this dream we don’t yet know but it is filled with immense possibility because the nature of the dream and the dreamer are one, the truth of love is unchanging.