EGGS OF POSSIBILITY

WHAT DO YOU DO WHEN YOU WAKE UP TO DISASTER? Do you carefully set aside the last four eggs for hatching? Or do you decide to savor them one by one? Do you replay the night before in your head over and over, thinking how you could have changed one little thing, and that would have made the difference? Do you curse the world or yourself or another? Or do you vow to be more organized, stronger, smarter, kinder, from here on out? Do you mourn what you've lost? Or claim what remains to you?

IRIS PAST THEIR BLOOM.

 Yesterday morning I woke to a long streak of feathers blown across the yard, and a worrisome quietness. I opened the lid of the coop to a sad vista. Not the gruesome scene of a weasel attack, with headless bodies lying limp. No, this was, I think, the work of coyotes. The coop door hanging open, piles of down in the corners of nest boxes, on the floor. The smell of feathers hangs in the air. I walk around the yard, calling for survivors. Maybe some managed to run under the shelter of the cedar grove, where they hide when they see a hawk circling. Maybe someone made it to the machine shed. The yard remains quiet and I find brave Chaucer lying still in the bed of poppies. His lovely red comb and wattles are stark against the green, the heads of poppies keeping quiet watch. He has kept his feathers, but the back of his neck is bloodied, his feet stretched out behind him. I imagine the heavy spurs landed some blows before he was caught. He would have fought bravely to protect his flock.

IRIS BLOOM

 I look out into the cornfield, now softly striped with fuzzy rows of green, new life emerging. Another spray of feathers halfway to the grass waterway shows where the dogs had their picnic. I sigh and return to the house. Sadness sweeps over me, but I can't let it defeat me. I've been here before. I know that living in the country comes with joys, but the country can also extract a price. I can't really be angry with predators who are just expressing their nature. In fact, predators help us keep an equilibrium. Coyotes, possums, skunks, hawks, weasels all eat chickens, yes. But they also eat rats, mice, and even rabbits whose gentle persona belies their capacity for destruction if they are not kept in balance by predation.

In the kitchen I find four eggs from yesterday. Two are white, one tan, one a deep brown. I could set these in an incubator and in three weeks have some chicks. Or I could eat these, and buy some day old chicks already hatched. What to do? Either way, it will be a good, long time before I have fresh eggs in my kitchen to coddle again. Perhaps December. I look out into the yard to consider. I see the summer laid out in front of me, full of opportunity. The sweet rocket is at its peak; Daisies are just beginning to bloom. Peonies are tight round bulbs ready to burst into a full blossom. My new iris varieties are beginning to open. These are two-tone—one has lower petals of deep purple, upper petals a soft lavender—another is purple and brown. One opened with buttery yellow blossoms, another is just beginning to reveal petals of a deep, almost black, crepe.

 

PEONIES ARE TIGHT ROUND
BLOOMS READY TO BURST
IN FULL BLOSSOM.

Further out I see the brown and green corduroy fields of corn, lines going straight back to the fence row. Yes, my summer is all laid out, full of opportunity. These four eggs each contain a rich, yellow yolk. If I crack them open I will see a tiny circle with a small, bright dot in the center. If I crack the eggs open, they will be delicious. If I keep them warm and turn them three times a day for 21 days, I will have 4 chicks. Either way, these four eggs are full of possibility. What would you do?

Await Beauty; Balance Peace; Blessed Be.

SEEKING EQUILIBRIUM

The first out of the door would be
Rufus, the Lionhearted

THE EQUILIBRIUM OF 
BIRDLAND HAS BEEN UPSET. We had such a tidy balance. In the mornings, just as the sun was coming up I would carry the big, galvanized scoop full of pellets out to the chicken house. A few steps away from the coop I would stop and spill a small offering to the great dog, Ursa, and then continue on to greet the flock. The first out of the door would be Rufus, the Lionhearted. The big, red rooster with the brave soul. He would rush at Ursa, and she would leave the small pile of grain, and turn tail to retreat to the trunk of the old Maple tree, lest she be thumped by the patriarch of the flock. Ursa used to think it was great fun to grab Rufus by the scruff of the neck and trot around the yard holding him in her mouth. However, once she got acquainted with his spurs she learned to show him more respect. A rooster's spurs are like three inch thorns on the back of his leg. They can somehow jump up and turn their spurs toward the victim to give a sound thumping. If spur meets flesh, there will be blood. Ursula lived to regret her earlier disrespect of the old rooster.

THE GREAT DOG, URSA

 Once Rufus was satisfied that Ursula would not bother the hens, he would join them in foraging around the yard. He would show them the tastiest treats, keeping a sharp eye on the sky for the hawk who strikes like a silent missile from above. When he saw a shadow circling in the sky he would sound the alarm and everyone would run for the shelter of the lilac, or the cedar tree. In the dark, under the sweeping branches they would all wait until he sounded the all clear.

Rufus was not the only rooster in Birdland, but he was the oldest. Chaucer, the upstart, is only just a year old, and though taller and heavier, he deferred to Rufus. Rufus gained confidence as he gained experience, and Ursa thought it wiser to leave the old fellow alone. 

Now, the door of the coop was secured with a bungie cord, but a curious thing has been happening lately. When I go out in the morning to bring food and carry away eggs, the bungie cord is sometimes missing. This happened a few times, and I didn't think too much of it. Once I found the bright orange cord next to the little pond, but another time I couldn't find it at all and had to replace it. Then one morning I went out to find my little white hen missing, feathers scattered all around the chicken yard. When this happened, we meant to fortify the door with a real latch—not just a bungie cord hooked over a couple of screws—but kept forgetting to pick up the hardware in town.

Of course, you know the end of the story. This morning, when I went out to let the flock out, they were already out, the door hanging wide open. The hens were wandering in two groups, poor Chaucer looking lost was with one of the groups, but instead of keeping a sharp eye on the sky or the field for danger, he was running from one shaded shelter to another. Everyone seemed agitated. Rufus must have put up a good fight. He valiantly defended his flock and his home, but all we could find were his downy, white under-feathers, and they were scattered from one end of the coop to the other.

   

... scattered from one end of the coop
to the other.

In town tonight, I remembered to stop by the farm store and buy a latch for the door of the coop. They had pens full of day old chicks—Rhode Island Reds, Barred Rock, and Buff Orpingtons. I paused for a moment and watched their various chick activities—sleeping, eating, pecking at the wood chips, pooping. At home we installed the new latch, but the chickens were afraid to go back to the scene of the disaster. At dusk, they circled the coop but wouldn't go in. Eventually, one at a time, they ran across the yard to the aviary, where they brooded as chicks. We opened the door and let them go in while we upended the coop to patch holes underneath and install the new latch. Then, in the dark, we carried them from the aviary back to their newly fortified home.

A year ago we had about 20 chicks. Now we have less than a third of that. When you pasture your chickens you're going to lose some of them. Hawks have to eat, too but it's time to replenish our flock, and I'm thinking—Buff Orpingtons.

Balance Beauty; Measure Peace; Blessed Be.