Bucolic Plague 1

The A 14 has received an early morning bashing from both of us this past week.
My partner has offered an observation which caught my imagination.
We assume that nature is every bit the early bird.
The cock crows at some ungodly hour.
The lark ascends into the dawn chorus, coughing and spitting,
with the start of bird flu.
But I am assured that this is not the case with all beasts.

Pigs are fond of a lie in.

Beside the A14 the serried ranks of little tin homes for pigs
are undisturbed by any activity at the relatively late hour of 8 or 9 o'clock!
Occasionally a pig lies outside in glorious repose. How different from myself.
I make no assumptions about others but if I crawled home from the boozer at some indeterminate hour I know my limbs would be spread in some fantastical contortion as I collapsed on the doorstep. The pins and needles and the lack of circulation would leave me moving like Quasimodo for a good hour or two.
Your pig, however, is a late but a tidy sleeper and despite not making it back into the old homestead sleeps in perfect symmetry; legs together, trotters pointing in the same direction.