They arrived this week, the six of them. Downy, soft, frail. Within days, they're hopping up to a small roosting bar, settling into a quiet boy's loose shirtsleeves, even managing to cover their galvanized tub home with poop. All is well. These new babes—two more buff orpingtons (to replace the pair we lost) and four gorgeous barred rocks) in our midst remind us how fast it all goes.
It's fast, because these tinies will be LAYING EGGS with their big sisters from the nearby coop in about five months. (Hard to believe, looking at them now.) It also seems like just yesterday that we were entering the world of hen rearing. But, a year later, we feel like old pros. Friends seek our advice (hmm...). Michael's marvelous "Poulet Chalet" (so-named by our friend Melissa) is an engineering marvel for a small flock like ours. And the hens follow me around the garden like nosey girlfriends. The fact is, our eggs are so plentiful, I practically take them for granted.
I shouldn't, though. A bold fox visiting the flatland down near the pond one morning this week made off with a rather large Canada goose gosling, leaving the family of seven we've watched grow, swim, and explore all spring ... missing one. The mother hen in me felt sick as I watched them swim off to safety. The parents looked back, hoping a straggler would catch up from the cattails. But it never did.
I remind myself several times a day (when boys are flying through the air on rope swings, say) that we watch them as closely as we can. And we have to relax and enjoy their unfurling. Like the chicks who can ALL roost on a calm arm now, the boys' hands are so much more nimble than a year ago that they can cradle them without choking (usually). That's not to say they don't leave a chick wandering around the mudroom, unattended, now and then. They do. They just help wipe up the floor afterwards.
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