|Sam peeking out from the eggplant.|
Quiet has come to the farm….without Bj crowing every two minutes the tension that comes with this noise has dissipated. The hens are more friendly; Sam waddles around me again as I garden, scratching for worms, or “wait looking” at me for a tomato handout. The other gals just relax under the brambles in hollowed out dirt beds they make by scratching out a dish-like space. And there is one girl who has found out a passage though the garden fence and like a loyal sentry, every evening walks up and down each vegetable row searching out bugs.
Its nice too, that I don’t have to keep a watch over my shoulder, ever anticipating the ruffle of feathers and the pain of being spurred; or being concerned that he might go after any of the farms helpers or visitors.
But this is all temporary.
In our new flock of partridge rocks, one chicken stands out from the others – it has a big red comb and long yellow legs. It is a bit taller than the others, and its feathers are darker and don’t show the tipped penciling trait. It’s just a matter of time now before this guy’s voice will betray him. Yet still, I have no plan…
My stubbornness drives a hope that this time the rooster will be a quiet one, friendly, and just blend into the background of quiet hens.
Hopes like these are called “wishful thinkin’”.
|The next Roo|
|Lou couldn't care less about any of this.... |