Closer to the ground, a
small black pig rooted happily in a heavy metal dish, its back dusted with
flecks of feed like golden confetti. The pig’s curly tail wagged with
satisfaction as though every bite was a small celebration.
But the pig was not
alone in its feast. Two barn cats, striped and sleek, pressed in on either side.
Their whiskers twitched as they lapped at the shared bowls, undeterred by the
pig’s snuffling. It was a strange trio to see—cats and pig dining shoulder to
shoulder—but in the barn, mealtime was a shared affair, not a competition.
From
the shadows, a chicken shuffled in, feathers pale against the dusty floor. It
pecked here and there, gathering what the larger eaters overlooked, adding to
the sense of quiet harmony that hung in the air.
The barn smelled of hay, earth,
and warm bodies, a mixture as old as farming itself. Each creature seemed
content, caught up in the simple rhythm of feeding. For a moment, it was easy to
believe the whole barnyard was a single family—different shapes, different
sounds, yet bound together by the ritual of supper.
