every day is a good day
You’d never think these eggs came from the same species of bird. The one on the left looks like a fairly normal chicken egg. The one on the right? What is it? The egg of a stork? It certainly doesn’t look like a chicken egg … and yet it is.
Looking at chicken eggs in the store, you would never know how varied they are. They come in infinite shapes, sizes, and colors. That’s what makes having your own flock of chickens such a joy, chicken eggs in all their glorious variety.
Yesterday, I heard Nina’s chicks peeping underneath her. Soft, happy peeps of chicks drying their wet feathers under their mother’s warm feathers.
Today, I saw two of them. Here is one. The other one snuggled underneath her before I could take it’s picture. It’s not unusual for a hen to hatch chicks in December. The past few years, I’ve had at least one hen raise a clutch in winter. Luckily for the chicks, this December is warmer than usual.
Today was a trail dragging day, rain from the get go. You know it’s raining a plenty when the roosters are dragging their tails on the ground. There are plenty of places they could go to be dry, but they would rather be outdoors, even if it is raining. It takes a downpour for them to seek cover. They do look sad, dragging their wet tail feathers behind them.
The next time it is raining all day, you can say, “It’s raining so much, the roosters are dragging their tails.”
The wind blew all day long today, ruffling feathers and keeping the chickens in the brush. They’ll brave getting their feathers ruffled for sunflower seeds. On a day like this, they are glad they aren’t birds of the sky, getting tossed here and there by strong gusts. There are advantages to lying low.
That’s Hazel on the right and Cognac on the left. Cognac used to lay eggs with chocolate brown shells. She’s too old to lay much anymore, but she can still poop, and as long as a hen can poop, she’s worth having.
At dawn’s early light, BB and I came across a pot of gold, a dump truck’s worth of cottonwood leaves. During the night the cottonwoods decided to drop all of their remaining leaves. Was there a leaf shaking party we weren’t invited to? Did a parliament of owls shake branches all night long, screeching and hooting at the cascades of falling leaves they made? Or did the trees tire of their leaves and with a frenetic shake, toss their leaves to the ground, because they wanted to feel the wind and rain with their naked branches?
You know, nature so often does unexpected things at night that it makes you want to stay up all night, flashing a beam of light about, just so you don’t miss the party.
The owls and the trees had their party last night. I’m having my party today, raking up the leaves, mixing them with litter from the chicken roosts, to fill a bin of compost. Why not drive around in a small tractor and scoop up and mulch the leaves in ten or twenty minutes? Because then I’d just be sitting on my butt and missing out on all the fun of raking, and gathering armfuls of leaves, and having the chickens race after me as I dash to the compost bin.
Svenda and the other chickens do their chicken dance, round and round the compost bin, as I fill it up with one wheelbarrow full of golden cottonwood leaves after another. I don’t think the cottonwoods realized that when they partied during the night, the chickens would party the next day, dancing on their fallen leaves. That’s the way nature is, one party after another.
