To the manure born
Chicken manure. That’s what he farms with over there, beyond the blue mountains.
At the turn-off from the main road to his farm gate, a hand-painted sign leans against bags filled with chicken manure: “Manure for sale/Mis te koop”. Next to it, attached to a wooden stand, is a steel box with a slot on which he has written, “Money/Geld”, and below it, “Honesty box”.
The manure farmer trusts his customers; he leaves it to them to decide on the value of the manure they take. Like a dominee who trusts his congregation when the collection plate is passed around. He knows, however, that not everyone is a manure customer, so he secures the box to the wooden stand with a chain and a padlock.
He has removed batteries, banana peels, condoms and sweet wrappers
