Latest news for women does viagra work

Lilacs bloomed in my urban backyard every spring in Ypsilanti. Every year, I watched the buds swell, waiting for the moment when they would burst into flower, filling the air with a delicate scent that seemed to prove something about the persistence of beauty. The weeks when the lilac bloomed were always too short and too few. Then again, we knew they would always come around again. Here in rural Maryland, the springtime blooms are different but no less fragrant and fleeting. The honeysuckle and wild roses bloom in unison. Since both ramble all over the place, the few weeks in May when both are blossoming are a riotous celebration of sight and scent. In early June, the roses turn inward, storing up the sweetness that will flavor the rosehips encircling their seeds. But the atmosphere is no less heady because the boxwood begins to bloom just as the roses are fading. At least I think it's the boxwood. It might well be some other shrub, or maybe the remaining Wisteria high up in the trees, sending out that intoxicating scent. All I know is that, when I went out into the chicken yards early yesterday morning, I actually staggered, made drunk by the intensity of a floral scent that filled up all of the air in my head, sending my brain into paroxysms of surprised delight. Can you imagine: A chicken yard that smells like a perfume factory? Even though it happens every year, I kept looking around for the source of the scent, almost unable to believe that I could be lucky enough to experience something like this accidentally. Maybe that was nature's way of bracing me for what was coming. My favorite bird had died the day before and I had to face the first morning of doing my chores accompanied by her absence. Let me tell you about her. A couple of years ago, a group of "broiler" chickens found their way to our sanctuary after a period of quarantine and health testing at another sanctuary. The young birds settled into the routine here with evident relief, alternating between relaxing and exploring. One bird soon stood out from the crowd because she was always mysteriously muddy, even -- in fact, especially -- when the weather was dry. I kept an eye on that curious chicken, who grew into a stubborn, stout, and always a bit bedraggled adult hen. Eventually, she further distinguished herself by joining with two of her friends to break out of the "broiler" foraging yard and join the assortment of anarchistic chickens who have taken over what used to be my front yard. (The tradition of anarchistic chickens with no respect for fences or property rights, goes back [women does viagra work] to the very first group of hens from an egg factory we took in back in 2000, several of whom took "free as a bird" literally and started jumping fences as soon as they recovered from the physical trauma of their incarceration. While those hens are no longer with us, their spirit lives on in the particularly lively and "multicultural" assortment of birds who have come together to form the front yard flock. ) Evelyn I called my favorite and her friends "The Plantago Trio" due to their habit of munching on plantain right outside my window in the early evening. After one of them perished from heatstroke during last summer's drought, I started calling my favorite "The New Mosselle. " (The first Mosselle was my grandmother. The next Mosselle was the hen who founded the sanctuary, who turned out to be a rooster and later came to be known as Viktor. That was before we quit switching names if we initially got the sex wrong, allowing roosters to be called "Lola" and "Peggy Sue. ") I had called that first bird after my grandmother because I was reminded of her zaftig beauty and stubborn charm. The New Mosselle shared those characteristics. I called her companion Evelyn after my grandmother's sister because they had the same sort of bickering yet intimate closeness. Before Evelyn passed away last winter, they were joined by a rail-thin "broiler" hen I call Miss Joyce after my childhood babysitter who could never gain weight. (I'm pretty sure there was a law requiring every Baltimore neighborhood to have a Miss Joyce back in the sixties. ) They all hung out with a tiny Bantam hen called Lady Catherine and with "Red Rover, Red Rover" (two red hens who like to roam), accompanied by Pluto the Self-Hatched Chick (I'll tell you his story another day) and a small black rooster who fervently but fruitlessly wanted to be their boyfriend. "Broiler" hens are like wild blooms, having a ragged beauty that you sometimes must look closely to perceive and always living less long than you would like. Bred by the poultry industry to have heavy flesh that burdens their organs and stresses their skeletons, they often perish abruptly due to heart attacks, heatstroke, or the enigmatic cause of sudden death known as "flip over syndrome. " The metabolic acceleration that allows the industry to "grow" birds to slaughter weight in only six to eight weeks continues throughout their lives. They reach sexual maturity earlier than other chickens. Those who manage to live longer than a year begin to appear as early as 18 months of age. (Other chickens live seven to ten years and don't start looking elderly until they are older than five. ) The New Mosselle was older than two, a great achievement for a "broiler" hen. At first, she had no way of knowing I had a special affection for her, as I tend to dote on all of the "broiler" chickens (by, for example, bringing treats right to them so that they won't have to compete with with the faster birds). But as she got older, I started whispering, "you're my favorite" whenever she happened to be close by. Women does viagra work on what i had no idea would be her last day, i told her that first thing in the morning and again when i happened to pass her resting by a water bowl at midday. A couple of hours later, when I went out to put straw in the coops, I saw her sleeping in the shade and then looked more closely and realized she was dead. I howled. That was Monday. Today is Wednesday. My favorite hen is buried with some blueberries and a sprig of honeysuckle underneath the plantain she and her friends so loved to munch. Right up the road, thousands of birds like her are choking in crowded sheds. They will never smell honeysuckle or taste a blueberry. (I did eventually figure out the mystery: She kept her beak open after taking a drink, allowing a few drops of water to dribble down her throat and onto her chest. When she did this after dustbathing, the water mixed with the dust, leaving those feathers always a little bit dirty and sometimes quite muddy. Since birds dustbathe when it's dry, that explains why she was never particularly muddy when it rained but always was muddy when it was dry. ) Today was our second morning without The New Mosselle. I say "our" because Miss Joyce, who is herself now rather old for women does viagra work a "broiler" chicken, is looking a little lost. After I opened up the chicken coops and fed the birds, I collected some mulberries for my own breakfast. Lucky for me, the chaotically sprawling trees in the "broiler" and infirmary yards bear more than enough fruit for the chickens, the wild birds, and me to all munch happily during their brief season. Fruit, like beauty women does viagra work, is fleeting.


?? 2008-2016 Legit Express Chemist.