My flock remains spooked by the recent falcon attack. Even though they are free to roam about the yard, (especially because even at this late date in December, we have no snow on the ground) more often than not, I find them huddled under the hen house overhang.
It’s dark there. It’s safe. No one knows where you are. It’s a place where you can lick your wounds. I get it.
But there’s also no fresh grass there – no yummy bugs. There’s no space to stretch your wings. The dirt is an uncomfortable place to lay your eggs and in such close proximity even your best tolerated flock mates have a tendency to get on your nerves.
Fear from tragedy is a terrible repressor.
And it’s no way to live your life.
Just in the last few days, the braver ones of the flock have decided to step out – to try the waters of freedom as it were.
Their bravery is tentative. They run to shelter when they hear a branch snap, an acorn drop, but at least they are trying. Baby steps. It’s the start of a beginning.
Because that’s how you regain your life.
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Wendy Thomas writes about the lessons learned while raising children and chickens in New Hampshire. Contact her at [email protected]
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