Feather and infinity with stay strong on upper arm

The loft was grey when I came out this morning, and the birds were already restless in their box, shifting and cooing like a kettle that won't quite boil. I've taken the old tin of wheat from the shelf above the sink, the one your grandad painted with a blue bird that's mostly flaked away now. Your Mam says I should stop feeding them by hand, that they'll forget how to fend for themselves. I told her they've never forgotten anything in their lives.

Yesterday Mr Achterberg from the allotments came round with news that the young cock you named Sprocket went down on the Kent road and didn't get up. I didn't tell you on the telephone because your voice had that thinness in it, the one you get when you're carrying too much at once. I'm sorry. I should have written it plainly rather than let you hear it from a stranger.

Here's the thing I kept turning over in the night. Sprocket never came home on the first try either. He'd go out past the chimneys and circle the whole valley, round and round in one long loop, until the clock was almost wrong and I'd given up. Then down he'd come, feathers ruffled, as if he'd only been stretching his legs. Stay strong, I used to tell him, though he couldn't read it. I'm telling you now, because somebody has to say it in ink.

The sky's lightening over the moor. I'll tie this note to the leg of the best hen and let her go. Keep your head up and your coat on.

Love, Nan