Bush eggs: one. Nest box eggs: none. Feed hopper: full.
Brian is out of the house and having a dust bath finally. It took me about the same time to get over losing my three boys, but at least I still had Jack. They were real mischief too, my sons, but such fun. They would organise brave raiding parties into the people house. When they were found and kicked out they would come charging back with interesting (and ludicrous) stories of all the things they had seen.
They were Sent Away to a bird sanctuary down the road (so I heard from the wild ducks). I keep on hoping they will show up one day, all grown with hens and chicks in tow.
It’s a nice daydream to have sometimes. But the reality of being ‘kept chickens’ as we are is that in some things our lives are not our own. Sure we are fed and sheltered by the people and cared for in a way that lets us lead long and healthy lives, right into egg retirement and beyond. But sometimes when our wishes – say for going broody and having chicks, clash with the peoples wishes – say for lots of eggs, then we get a sense of deep powerlessness.
Oh well, the feed hopper is full, my belly is full and my days are full – that has to be enough.
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