~450 words
The Yolk of the Moon
By Shantell Powell
The old black dog was an egg sucker. He skulked around the chicken coop, waiting for a hen to lay on the ground instead of in a nesting box. He licked his nose and shut his mouth. His long tail was tucked down between his ankles, ready at a moment’s notice to press up against his belly. He looked back and forth to make sure no one was watching him. He was in no hurry to get kicked again.
A little Barred Rock stepped away from the hollow where she’d been dusting herself. The speckled hen made one careful step after another, reaching out her yellow-white legs in a slow march, head bopping back and forth as she made her way to the garden.
The dog licked his chops and followed.
The hen settled down beneath a berry bush. She tipped up her tail feathers, and out slid a glistening white egg. She stood up and cackled loud and proud, strutting back and forth until the dog nosed her aside and gently picked up the hardening egg between his teeth. His greying jowls
Powell/ The Yolk of the Moon / 2 hung down over it. He scuttled off and hid beneath the porch. He circled round three times to his left and lay in his own dusty hollow, and then he bit into the shell with one sharp tooth and sucked the contents right through the hole. His dusty bed was surrounded with eggshells. He sighed happily and stared out at the hens scratching over by the coop. Another one might lay soon. He’d be ready. That night, the full moon hung low on the horizon, just out of reach of the trees. The old black dog climbed a hill with his low-slung, creaky hips. He sat at the top and tipped his head up to howl. The moon looked delicious in its nest of stars, but he’d never found a way to snatch it up with his teeth. The white of the moon would nourish him and make his hair soft and silky like when he’d been a pup. The albumen would take the pain from his bones. The yolk of the moon
