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The Books
Book 1 of the Servant of the Crown series
Book 2 of the Servant of the Crown series
Book 3 of the Servant of the Crown series
Book 4 of the Servant of the Crown series
Book 5 of my mystery series
My award-winning first novel
Book 2 of the Graistan series
Book 3 of the Graistan series
Book 4 of the Graistan series
Book 5 of the Graistan series
Book 1 of the Lady series
Book 2 of the Lady series
Book 1 of the Warriors series
Book 2 of the Warriors series
Book 3 of the Warriors series
My only Regency Novel
A Children of Graistan Novel
A Children of Graistan Novella
An Impetuous Season, a Western novella
Happy Thanksgiving
‘Twas the eve before Thanksgiving and all across the farm
the last turkeys roosted, certain they were safe from all harm.
The chimney was clean, swept out with all care
now that the farmer was certain winter soon would be here;
The pigs were both nestled all snug in their sty
while the farmer cherished thoughts of lots of bacon to fry;
Then out on the bridge there arose such a clatter,
that the farmer leapt up to see what was the matter.
Away to the window she flew like a flash,
Tossed back the curtains and threw open the sash.
But what to her tired eyes did she spy? (Although what was there gave her no reason to wonder.)
All three sheep, escaped to a garden to find lettuce to plunder.
More rapid than eagles these hooligans they came, so she whistled, and shouted, and called her dogs by their names:
“Now, Moosie, please stop them. Come, Bear. You can move faster,
or did you forget once again I am your master?”
From the porch to the wall the dogs they did bolt,
to chase those sheep to the field but not to their fold.
So down from the house the farmer she came,
To the barn, for the bucket and the lure of some grain.
She entered the barn in one easy bound,
dressed in old jeans, her tall boots making a clip-clopping sound.
Her clothes were all tarnished with turkey…never mind…
and she shivered because not even a sweater could she find.
“Where is my coat this time?” she cried as she drew up a scoop.
“What an idiot, a dolt. No just an old poop!”
Then she laughed, and her eyes—how they twinkled!
Her cheeks were like roses despite they were wrinkled.
Singing again, she went straight to her work,
filled the bucket with grain then turned with a jerk,
to trip over the hose that she’d left out in the rain
and pinch her hand on that stupid latch once again.
With her dogs at her heels, she locked up the sheep,
then one more time checked her birds and her pigs, now asleep.
Then giving a nod, back to her house and her fire she did fly,
crying “I’m done for the night,” even though this was a lie.
“I do love my life,” she said to fire. “I give thanks every day, that really is true.
But what I most grateful for is..” All of you!
To all my readers, Happy Thanksgiving from The Farm on Oak Creek
© Denise Domning, 2023