I want to write something about this painting, but even as I type I can hear the sounds of our last chicken dying on our porch. She has her head pressed against the backdoor and every now and again she spasms against it. I feel I should dispatch her, but it is such a sunny day. And she is so old. I think if it was me, I would want to be left on the porch in the sunshine. But I could just be rationalizing my inactivity.
I hope it is busy at work.