Broken plates. The sound of shattered shards of fragile china landing on the distressed wooden table facing the mosaic artist. They used to be fine china plates dressed in a beautiful floral pattern in shades of grey and black. Some fall into the depressions created by pieces of glass piercing the once-smooth surface. They emit a muffled sound, some even landing upright, creating another pit in the wood.

So many times. Too many times. More years than anyone should give-and lose.  With each try, with each step the rungs on my ladder fell away. I tumbled down and landed at the bottom, albeit not the very bottom. There was always a subfloor. Sadly, the basement below always waited to greet me.

Feathers. They are everywhere. Our chicken coop is adorned with a fluffy, feathered floor rug. How nice.

Making their way in all different directions are our seven chickens and Mr. Fancypants, our grey used-to-be-feather-clad rooster. Still, for my sweet birds, nothing else has changed. Despite this yearly occurrence, the pecking order remains in place; crowing and clucking sounds echo from the wooden walls of their coop, and I celebrate the few blue and sometimes peach-colored eggs they lay this time of year. Winter hovers over our yard with cold winds and sometimes even snow. Nature is in charge here.