Brief, untitled narrative

In the arid, long-held breath of July the mudroom is already ticking with warmth as we breakfast on the porch to the fizzle of wasps while over the tepid circuitry of new air drifts the murmuration of a northern house wren, a tiny, demented woman reciting a story in the Toyon bush while the quiet fuck-fuck-fuck of chickens floats to us from the coop where the black star cross and her little bantam escort kick ecstatically for grubs as they, too, break fast.