On mornings like this it seems that if I focus enough I'll see through to a parallel world where magical things thrive. The fog is thick, the dew is heavy (but the grass is mown and not laughing). It's going to be cloudy so there's no sun trying to burn off the fog in short order. The world is grayed at the edges and those edges are closing in at times, palpable. It's chilly. Two eggs in the nesting boxes. I warm the fingers of each hand, wrapping them around an egg apiece. I never realized an egg could be so handy. Even though the eggs are unfertilized, it's a connection to life, this heat in the eggs. A connection to the hen's heat, her life. I care for them, they care for me, gifting me with warm eggs when my fingers are chilled as I struggle with hooks and eyes and check their fencing, my early morning task. It's a magic, this heat, this lifeforce.