My sunrise exercise, I fill two water jugs in the basement washtub, pull on my red chicken boots, and open the sliding door-wall. The hens will be good and thirsty.

Stepping into a sunny, newborn day robust with birdsong, the first white dwarf iris to bloom nestled between boulders, greets me. She’s a luscious contrast before the green and flowering landscape – a gardener’s joyful surprise for accidentally planting her rhizomes in the right place.

I smile and sing, “It’s a beautiful morning, ooh-ahh,” as I walk downhill to the henhouse.

That’s all I remember of the lyrics and determine to find them on the internet after breakfast. And who wrote and sang this soulful ode to daybreak? The tune vaguely relates to the troubled times of my late teens.

The Isa Browns huddle before the closed chute, squawking for liberation into their pen. “I’d be hollering too,” I say. “It’s a beautiful morning!”

I sing while turning their straw, refreshing their grain bin and waterer in their roosting room. They’ve left me five eggs in the straw, one in the grain feeder – our first flock in fifteen years to manage such a strange thing.

The seventh hen, a retired Isa Brown, hasn’t produced for months. Yet, the matron’s a good influence on her housemates. And I prefer the number seven to six.

They’ve tipped their waterer again and wet the straw. I head for the pavilion’s storage room for a low stool to stabilize the waterer and minimize my work.

A mother robin flies from a nest built years ago in a wreath hung on a pavilion post. I see two mouths wide open begging for bugs, and their undeveloped eyes. “It’s a beautiful morning, babies. Mama will be back soon.”

When I enter to the hens’ pen and refill their second waterer, those silly girls drink water I spilled on the ground while cleaning the container’s trough! Why bother?

Later, after a fresh scrambled egg and asparagus meal, I discover Felix Cavaliere and Eddie Brigati wrote the song. Both members of the American rock band they dubbed The Rascals, they claim the inspiration for the lyrics came the morning after a successful performance in Honolulu, Hawaii, in June 1968.

Well, isn’t every morning a beautiful morning in Hawaii?

According to Wikipedia, personal interviews, and Facebook, Cavliere and Brigati, my seniors, remain active musicians. Perhaps it’s taking in all that fresh air, and “children with robins and flowers, sunshine caresses each new waking hour,” that keeps them ticking.

In conclusion, dear Reader, “I think I’ll go outside a while and just smile. It’s my chance to wake up and plan another brand new day. Either way, it’s a beautiful morning.”

“Each bird keeps singing his own song. So long, I’ve got to be on my way, now. I’ve got to cover ground.” There’s my first bleeding heart blooms to welcome.

And there’s Cuddles my cat, drinking from the birdbath again.

Ahh…what a beautiful morning!

Contact Iris at irisfarmletters@gmail.com.