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had to stare at each hen. Look into that small eye as it rotated around in its small head as the neck slightly twisted. I quickly grabbed for her warm egg. Terror was exchanged between the sitting hen and myself.

My grandfather's eggs set on his plate with bacon and toast. His elbows rested on the edge of the table. Then it began, the survey, the plan. Looking at the plate his only comment was, "give me the syrup". The syrup was in a metal container the shape of a log cabin. Each side had a window and the logs were printed on the all four sides. The lid was the chimney. The top was unscrewed and then he poured. The carmel color syrup went on his eggs and bacon. The toast was spared because it became the dam to keep the syrup blocked up against his eggs and bacon. Now the plate swam is carmel colored liquid. The eggs had a glaze of syrup flowing down and around the yellow egg yolks. Stop, survey, begin. The colors of fresh egg yoke and syrup start to flow together. The fork is now a shovel that takes liquids and solids to his mouth. The deposit is made. The toast is eaten last. Saved to do the final clean up. Swirled around on the plate, left, right, catching egg yoke and syrup bringing the food into his mouth. His face has a final look of conquest, done. The chair scrapes across the floor and he moves away from the table.

My grandmother was at the sink moving between the stove and the refrigerator getting my grandfathers lunch. He was a train engineer that worked for the open-pit mine located in Morenci. The train ran alone the edge of a man made canyon two miles wide

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