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We woke up this morning to dark storm clouds, an oddly placed but familiar sound of a single crowing old rooster, and a coolness in the air. John was the first out of bed and it wasn’t a minute until he came back to the bedroom to tell me something had tore into our hen house and killed all our hens and their rooster. I jumped up and went outside to see one hen smashed and laying in the run. The only thing remaining of the other 3 chickens were a few feathers. All around the run and coop was the evidence of the predator trying to break through the chicken wire. It got in around the bottom of the run.

My heart sank. I can’t blame the predator (probably a bobcat or raccoon). To each its own. I have to blame our novice attempts at tending poultry. Here is the test of “Jubilee” – swing and turn… live and learn. We know now how to reinforce the coop. I can’t help but feel sad. A calm always seems to prime the atmosphere for a storm. I’ve come to expect it.

I had developed a kinship with the hens. They liked me and I liked them. John spent an afternoon this week sketching them and yesterday Deladis took her easel outside to do the same. Deladis isn’t hurt about it at all. “Roy is still alive,” she said.

I had a post ready for today pertaining to how great we are coming along with our food budget. How our chickens and the garden is helping to save us money and that maybe I’d be able to put back some meat for fall and winter. I’ll post it tomorrow as it is still a pertinent topic, but today’s travesty will set us back once again.

We are looking for a new set of hens. Our old man rooster is crowing and looking for his lost loves. I am trying to “chin up” and tell myself that it isn’t a sign from above of more of the same to come.

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About Me

An Appalachian woman born and raised, mothering two little girls in a place that is non-existent to AT&T or UPS. Happily working toward a sustainable lifestyle and writing on the demand of a loud muse.

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