The Yard at Drift-Speed
Late afternoon again. The sun leans low across the Cosmic Chicken Yard, and the dust glows like memory.
Matilda stands near the nesting box, feathers puffed in quiet thought.
The crystal chick stirs — a shimmer under the straw — not hatching, just remembering light.
Somewhere behind them, the toaster hums a single sustained note.
It might be philosophy.
It might just be power regulation.
If this were a prayer, it would be for patience: the art of not hurrying the inevitable.
Matilda lowers her head, scratches once in the soil, and the shimmer settles.
Evening gathers its edges, and the yard exhales.