Remember December
As the year winds down to its annual grand finale, I knew it was necessary to take a pause and reflect on all that I have built here on the farm, and how it nurtures me daily.
This contemplative vibe came after a strange series of events. Our neighbor dropped off 7 hens and 1 rooster a few days ago and we had no choice but to accept them. We did have a plan to expand the flock next spring, but time, as John says, is a construct and very often things happen in a different order than planned.
We named the new chickens the “B” group and from the get go, we knew they were wild. Our first attempt at putting bands on their little legs failed as they barged out of their pen before we could grab even one. They kept mostly to themselves by day, guarded by the young rooster always at their side. Some of the ladies in our original “A” group did venture over to investigate, but were quickly met by the rooster standing tall in front of his harem.
The untamed animals resisted any thoughts of captivity, and by nightfall that first night, the “B” group made their way up into an entangled bank of Rhodedendrons and no amount of coaxing or shaking of branches could lure them into the safety of cage they rode in on nor the coop that would hopefully be their future home.
So we let nature take its course and slowed down our process of getting acquainted with these wild birds, after all, we hardly knew them. And it wasn’t a few nights later when the rooster got nabbed right off the end of the branch he was perched on. It was late in the evening, about 11 at night when we heard a rustle of activity and immediately ran out the door. The dog slammed his nose to the ground right away confirming the recent presence of an intruder. It was impossible to count tree-bound black chickens in the middle of the night, so we waited until morning to find the hens casually pecking about and saw that their young escort was missing. We soon found his remains, just a few piles of feathers, strewn about in the neighbors field. We figured it was probably a coyote or fox. With a bit of internet research, we learned that foxes hunt alone and often swallow their prey whole, and the multiple piles of feathers made me think more than one predator was involved. The mystery will continue to be a curiosity that will feed our imagination for time to come.
But the poor little guy. He was just learning to crow. The act of predation seems almost random but is more aptly intentional as nature absorbed what it needed and shifted the shape of our new group of hens.
Beauty is all around me. It isn’t always nice. In two years, we’ve not lost one chicken to a predator. Alaska set the tone by fighting off a hawk early on.
The rest of that cool sunny day of December was spent slowly pacing around the property in periodic moments of reflection. I observed the trees in the forest, they’re last leaves hanging onto naked branches. I listened to the distant call of another rooster in a nearby place. I watched the winter spring push water out of the ground and trickle down the slope.
I consider the pandemic in the world around me. I contemplate those who have worked through this time without stopping. I think about how lucky I am to have this time to reflect.
Two bluebirds follow behind me as I fill the feeders around the field. It is cold, almost freezing and yet it is very warm in the sun. I see that tiny seeds are still being picked off of flowers in the field, and wild birds are resting on the corn stalks that I left standing. My ecosystem is slowly bringing itself into balance.
At the very top of a tall tree, a very large nest sits isolated and obvious against a very blue sky.
The beauty I see is death. Bits and pieces of the rooster’s carcass are scattered about. Perhaps they will blow away in the wind and the moment of his death will be forgiven.
In winter, the sun only reaches the lower half of our property, and the parts of the land in perpetual shade are noticeably more cool and damp as they should be. The water from the creek runs strong and is cloudy with minerals carried down from the mountain. The sound of the creek is thankfully loud again, perhaps the loggers upstream have cleared the mess they created. Perhaps nature has just pushed through, despite our human attempts to stop it.
The “B” group of chickens continue stay close to the protective cover of the Rhodedendrons. They run from grain tossed in their direction, but I hope some day they will see that I am friendly. I demonstrate that I am safe by tossing food to the old hens in front of the new ones. The new hens watch me from a very distinct distance.
That night I worry they won’t make it into the coop, especially since I see them fluttering their wings towards the trees at dusk. Shaking the branches only makes them fly higher, almost thirty feet up. I wonder, “are these still chickens?” But soonour persistence pays off and one by one they descend and we shepherd them towards the coop where the rest of the flock is lined up. “Follow them in,” I say, “get in the coop.” Me and John are standing guard on both sides of the coop flapping our arms like wings to usher them towards the door and slowly, one by one, the new hens cautiously enter the warmth of the coop. Over and over, we count, a task made difficult with 26 moving birds. One is missing, and we know it’s the smallest. We search the trees, flashlights in hand, for almost an hour yet never catch a glimpse of her. That night the temperature dropped below freezing. We hoped for the best blanket nature could provide.
And right when the dawn broke we looked out the window and watched a little black chicken casually drop down from the trees and join her flock as if nothing was strange, weird, or unusual. She got her name that day, Kahoolawe, the smallest island in Hawaii, population zero.
Although a big part of farming is manipulating and coaxing nature along, an even bigger part is to observe and reflect, particularly appropriate at the end of an emotionally taxing and financially challenging year whose death brings me more life.
I continue to find awe in the resiliency of nature which fills me with hope. These times of reflection are so important to absorb, and I speak with intense gratitude for the opportunities that were presented at first as obstacles and then as a chance to dive deep into me, to fully explore who I am and what I am here for. Although 2020 started with so much promise. “Clarity” was the word I chose to guide me, yet never a clear lens into the future rather a lifting of layers of fog, one by one away, in a path led by truth.
