The Battle of The Bulge.

The Red Feathered Coat is coming! The Red Feathered Coat is coming!

All events of this story are told in a manner only a Bostonian can give.


Completely and utterly true in their own mind.







I heard the telltale scream of the rooster.  It was a scream I have heard many times now.



Sometimes its from the hens- but now that the boys have found their voices, it comes from them mostly.

The scream much like that of the villagers of Heorot as Grendel attacks.




The hawk was in site, and the feathered plebes of Glory Downs lives were in danger.

I ran outside onto my balcony in time to see the hawk, aptly named "Eye of Mordor," watching the citizens dashing too and fro, trying to avoid getting caught in its glare.  As I peered over the balcony,  I bit my lip in anticipation of what was to come into sight

There was the hawk.


In my back yard.

Threatening.

Watching.

Licking its hawk lips.

Doing donuts in my backyard, while driving and IROC and flipping me the bird.



So I go.

Inside.

Muster up my bravery.

Maybe I painted my face.

Maybe I don a quilt.

Maybe I take a few licks of cookie dough thats in the freezer.

And prepare for battle.



I head back out onto the balcony.   By now the roosters have gotten their ladies inside the coop and safe from the watchful eye-

But the enemy will not give up.. Its relentless ability to have this thing called patience is astounding me.


But I have this thing called an AK47.  and that is pretty relentless as well.



I cock the gun.

Chew the butt end of my cigarette.

Adjust my eye patch.

And fire.




Blow! Blow! Blow!


I fire at the hawk-

The rockets red glare!

The bombs bursting in air!

The hawk turns!

Looks at me!

Spits!

It gave proof-

that the hawk was.......










still there.




I snapped too.


I didn't have a gun.-

 let alone an AK.

there was no eyepatch,

or quilt.

My face was not painted.

I wasn't smoking a cigarette.

There was no Heorot.

No IROC.

No donuts stamped into the back yard.

No.

none of that.


Just a Mom.

In ill fitting skinny jeans.


Who just got out of the car on a return trip from the stores, with a pop song still stuck in her head.

Holding Walmart bags full of babyfood.

And a baby.

in her slippers that have holes in them.

poorly chucking rocks at a hawk so high up in the trees,  it was hard to see in her day old runny mascara.




........yah actually...


it was more like that.

Alot more like that.


sigh.