Stick your hand underneath a brood hen, reaching through the foot-long window of the chicken coop, if you want to experience pure fluffy warm fertility. Above you the sun is a hot yolk on a Delft blue platter. The bird you confront as she nests in her small space is soft, her almond-brown feathers almost more yielding than fur. Beneath her the eggs, a half dozen of them, laid and left there by the other birds for the brood hen to nurture with her heat. The sun is an egg in the nest of the sky. The tomatoes in the garden by the way blaze red as the sun. The world turns on this one moment, your eye confronting the speckled eye of the egg.
Jean Zimmerman 
what an eloquently tactile description–i can feel those feathers, see the tomatoes, feel the heat.