Cooping

A mature man patiently waited, boxed inside a slat-and-wire chicken coop. The confines of the coop were tight, constructed with1x2 inch, slat frames stapled with a lining of twisted wire loops. The white haired man, suffering male pattern baldness, hunched in the humid interior of the coop, his expression unmoved. His eyes bore a complacent stare and nothing more. On his safari style shirt were flap pockets over-stuffed with small spiral note tablets and chicken feed. He waited, obtusely confident, firm-mouthed and square shouldered. The roof of the slat-and-wire coop was sloped and he could hear the scratching of scaled feet on it’s corrugated steel. Committing to patience, he wore no wrinkled brow of doubt. Weather had worn the wood of the coop, now de-braided of it's original paint and exposed the rusting outlines of nails interred in the open woodgrain. The hen nests lay empty as the sun gained it’s zenith and the day baked. The balding man kept his vigil in the stifling confines of the square coop. The oven temperatures drew rivulets of perspiration from his forehead. The canvas material of his shirt stained dark under his arms. No amount of discomfort would move him from his station. The scratching sounds continued while white and brown feathers floated down like snowflakes from above. With only the mildest hint of anticipation, he twirled a heavy ball peen hammer in his right hand. When the moment turned ripe, the man would act swift and terrible. He'd yet to let a weasel out smart him.