by Pa Rock
Farmer in Summer
My heart is heavy this morning, laden with one of the bitter truths of rural living. A farm, especially a small farm, is comprised of populations of animal life in which the creatures are dependent not only upon their own wiles and those of their comrades, but also upon the diligence and hard work of their humans. Unfortunately, there are always many predators standing ready to snuff out the lives of animals on a farm, especially if they are small and young and essentially defenseless.
One month ago yesterday I drove to the feed store and picked up twenty-seven baby chicks that I had ordered several months prior. The little chicks were one day old. I brought them back to my little farm and gently placed them into the special room in the chicken coop that was fitted with a floodlight to keep them warm as well as a couple of feeders and waterers. One chick died soon after arriving at The Roost, but the others appeared to be getting along fine.
A few days later I opened the hatch to allow them outside during the day into a penned-in area. Some of the curious little birds began figuring out ways to dig under their wire enclosure and experience life on the outside. Unfortunately several died during those brief escapes - before I found them and could get them back in their caged area. The cats were responsible for some of the carnage, and I think passing dogs may have also been involved.
By the time I fell and broke my are on the last day of May, I believe there were just eighteen left.
My son, Nick, had to take over caring for the chicks after I became incapacitated. A couple of more got out and died before Nick got the area into a shape that appeared to be tightly sealed. The number finally stabilized at thirteen - eleven little pullets (hens) and two cockerels (roosters). Nick did an amazing job of caring for the birds, and I could see that he was developing quite an attachment to them. I managed to make a couple of trips to the hen house each day to note with pride how well they were doing. Yesterday, on their one-month anniversary at the farm, I was pleased to see that they were getting large and starting to feather out nicely.
This morning as I was stumbling out of bed, Nick approached me the the sad news that a predator had somehow gotten into the coop during the night and killed all of the young chickens except for one very frightened little pullet. I was sad for the loss (although this was not my first chicken massacre), but I was more sad for the young man who had spent so much time caring for those little birds.
Farms are about renewal - and, very sadly, they are also about death.
Today's poem is a somewhat bleak, yet inspirational verse that I came across on the internet. It is about chickens that are raised on factory farms for slaughter who have scant opportunity to experience the world around them - just as our little chicks had almost no opportunity to experience many positives of the world that they were preparing to enter.
I am sharing it as an appreciation of Nick and of the people who persevere despite the setbacks that life hands them - and it is also my apology and lament to a very frightened and lonely little chicken who is suddenly becoming aware of the precarious nature of life on a farm.
Passing a Truck Full of Chickens at Night on Highway Eighty
by Jane Mead
What struck me at first was their panic.
Some were pulled by the wind from moving
to the ends of the stacked cages,
some had their heads blown through the bars -
and could not get them in again.
Some hung there like that - dead -
their feathers blowing, clotting
in their faces. Then
I saw the one that made me slow some -
I lingered there beside her for five miles.
She had pushed her head through the space
between bars - to get a better view.
She had the look of a dog in the back
of a pickup, that eager look of a dog
who knows she's being taken along.
She craned her neck.
She looked around, watched me, then
strained to see over the car - strained
to see what happened beyond.
That is the chicken I want to be.
Farmer in Summer
My heart is heavy this morning, laden with one of the bitter truths of rural living. A farm, especially a small farm, is comprised of populations of animal life in which the creatures are dependent not only upon their own wiles and those of their comrades, but also upon the diligence and hard work of their humans. Unfortunately, there are always many predators standing ready to snuff out the lives of animals on a farm, especially if they are small and young and essentially defenseless.
One month ago yesterday I drove to the feed store and picked up twenty-seven baby chicks that I had ordered several months prior. The little chicks were one day old. I brought them back to my little farm and gently placed them into the special room in the chicken coop that was fitted with a floodlight to keep them warm as well as a couple of feeders and waterers. One chick died soon after arriving at The Roost, but the others appeared to be getting along fine.
A few days later I opened the hatch to allow them outside during the day into a penned-in area. Some of the curious little birds began figuring out ways to dig under their wire enclosure and experience life on the outside. Unfortunately several died during those brief escapes - before I found them and could get them back in their caged area. The cats were responsible for some of the carnage, and I think passing dogs may have also been involved.
By the time I fell and broke my are on the last day of May, I believe there were just eighteen left.
My son, Nick, had to take over caring for the chicks after I became incapacitated. A couple of more got out and died before Nick got the area into a shape that appeared to be tightly sealed. The number finally stabilized at thirteen - eleven little pullets (hens) and two cockerels (roosters). Nick did an amazing job of caring for the birds, and I could see that he was developing quite an attachment to them. I managed to make a couple of trips to the hen house each day to note with pride how well they were doing. Yesterday, on their one-month anniversary at the farm, I was pleased to see that they were getting large and starting to feather out nicely.
This morning as I was stumbling out of bed, Nick approached me the the sad news that a predator had somehow gotten into the coop during the night and killed all of the young chickens except for one very frightened little pullet. I was sad for the loss (although this was not my first chicken massacre), but I was more sad for the young man who had spent so much time caring for those little birds.
Farms are about renewal - and, very sadly, they are also about death.
Today's poem is a somewhat bleak, yet inspirational verse that I came across on the internet. It is about chickens that are raised on factory farms for slaughter who have scant opportunity to experience the world around them - just as our little chicks had almost no opportunity to experience many positives of the world that they were preparing to enter.
I am sharing it as an appreciation of Nick and of the people who persevere despite the setbacks that life hands them - and it is also my apology and lament to a very frightened and lonely little chicken who is suddenly becoming aware of the precarious nature of life on a farm.
Passing a Truck Full of Chickens at Night on Highway Eighty
by Jane Mead
What struck me at first was their panic.
Some were pulled by the wind from moving
to the ends of the stacked cages,
some had their heads blown through the bars -
and could not get them in again.
Some hung there like that - dead -
their feathers blowing, clotting
in their faces. Then
I saw the one that made me slow some -
I lingered there beside her for five miles.
She had pushed her head through the space
between bars - to get a better view.
She had the look of a dog in the back
of a pickup, that eager look of a dog
who knows she's being taken along.
She craned her neck.
She looked around, watched me, then
strained to see over the car - strained
to see what happened beyond.
That is the chicken I want to be.
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