There is no small, folded envelope. There is no pristinely trimmed note. There is no note at all.

But at some point, at some hour in which the aforementioned chickens are acquainted with having seed spread for them, Wysteria is there sitting on one of the garden's planter boxes. She is bundled up against the weather with a scarf pulled high and a felt hat yanked low, and there is a hiss and a squawking of enthusiasm from the assemblage of poultry at her feet as she flings a mitten-ful of dry corn and barley seeds onto the pavers.