Izzy the Silkie Chicken
I’m out in the yard, with a shovel, sipping red zin, watching the skies (wait for it)….like a hawk. And, for the hawk. I’m full on alert, ready to do battle if it comes to that, although I would prefer to not harm to a gorgeous raptor. That said, I’m keeping four feet between myself and the chickens.
I hear everything. Every squirrel. Every different bird cry. See the cardinal pair that frequent the yard. An owl hoots in the distance. Several planes pass, startling The Ladies, but at such high altitudes that we don’t hear them. A pair of squirrels cross the fence and have a mock battle, alarming me with the wing-like movement of their tails.
Butterflies are now frequenting the heady blooms of the gorgeous wisteria, blanketing the trees behind the fence. Carpenter bees are looking for niches in the fence and startle the chickens.
It occurs to me that I’m a modern day shepherd of sorts, guarding a flock. As on alert as they are to predators.
I have three HUMONGOUS bids to do, but I’m killing an hour, ankle deep in the thickest greenest clover patch this side of the Mississippi, watching chickens do the chicken dance (I think it’s a pecking order thing), get tangled up in a pile of branches, finding bugs under every leaf and ripping the weeds to shreds. And the most fun of all: flapping wide, gleeful circles around the emerald arborvitae, and generally putting on the biggest display of joie de vivre.
Chickens on their ramp
And yeah, it was a really nice way to spend an hour. Watching six very different sized, different colored young birds kick up their funny-looking heels in the spring growth
