Coffee, Boots, Chickens

No explanation needed and none offered. If you have to ask what this means you have never stood at a back door in the early morning dark, one hand wrapped around a mug that is the only thing standing between you and unconsciousness, sliding your feet into boots that have seen things, heading out to a coop full of creatures that cannot tell time and do not care that it is not fully light yet and you had a whole plan for sleeping in. This is the uniform. This is the ritual.  Up before the sun. Worth every minute.