About Josephine.

3/20/15

What am I to say to you? When you are every friend I have ever watched die. I sat with you, wintered with you, and last summer we turned over worms in the garden. You have turned yourself to that ancient pose, Asteriornis maastrichtensis . What wings you have woven. Thank you, Josephine. You were the best chicken yet.

3/30/15

Yesterday we read Josephine's Will. It went about as well as you imagine. Chicken tradition says "to preserve order in the coop distribution of an estate should take place only once it has been determined that the chicken in question is not merely napping." For our hens, this still means almost immediately. If it wasn't for Sarna filing an injunction requesting more time to search for other Wills, I would have had this done by Thursday. Hamlina and Freaka, being a generation removed from Josephine, cared little for the knitted items, the knick-knacks or her reading glasses. They elbowed each other as I read, "and I leave my 50" plasma TV to..." (up on their toes) "The Coop. May you all share it equally!"

They groaned. "All they ever watch is Wheel and Jeopardy!" Sniglar rolled her eyes as they left. Wheel is something everyone agrees on and Pat is ageless. When it was all done and the girls were off in their corners with their mementos, Olive came up to me. "She's really gone, isn't she?" She scratched a little and kept her head down. She scratched again. "Sometimes I hear her in the nest box. At least, I think it's her.." I put down the clipboard and manila folder. I tried to think of what to say.

"She might be gone from here but she's not gone from everywhere. Do you remember what Sophie taught you about butterflies?"

She looked up at me, "That they're tasty?"

I tried again. "No, that they used to be worms but now they've changed."

She looked away, almost nervous. "I'm not sure I believe that. Worms... into butterflies? Are you saying that we are an entanglement of energy in a constantly bubbling universe of shapes and life that unravels nearly as soon as it is made only to become something different? Are you saying that I was once a sacred cow or a coral polyp or a dog someone once petted, and now I am a hen in your yard?"

"Yeah, like that." She got it.

"I wonder what she is today?"

I smiled at her. "Something wonderful."

4/4/15

Well, I’m glad *that’s* over. This morning’s eclipse darkened the moonlit pasture before sunrise. It had been bright all night. The second eclipse this year. The rooster started to crow but the hens shushed him. If any of you raise poultry you are surely familiar with what comes next. The drums. One beat, then a pause. That would be the repeating measure. While candles (I know, I know) silhouetted the spirits of dancing hens in the window plastic, creepy little Mattie was in the corner with her voodoo dolls. Blood Moon is what it’s called. When the Moon passes through the Earth’s shadow. Sniglar was reading the bedding in the nest boxes. Sarna had her hydrocrystalophone set up and it wasn’t long before Hamlina was speaking in tongues. She said it was Guinea Hen but really she was just talking through her nose. Sophie and Hammy are in the other coop. I would have looked in but already knew Sophie would have ALL of her fortune cards out and be scaring Hammy to death with them. I’ll do something about that later. Pick your battles, right?

During the crescendo of the eclipse, when the moon was dark and all of the hens were dancing or flapping, and even swinging loop-de-loops while clinging to the roost poles there came a knocking on the door. “Peck, Peck, Peck! The rooster clamored for his composure. “Peck... Peck...” Then Hamlina spoke, “It’s Josephine!”

I was back on my heels. I thought, “Oh, no.”

The hens called to me, “Open the door, Open the door!” I flipped the little latch and there, in the rain, covered in mud, drenched in the red light of the moon was Josephine. My dead little Josephine. I looked again. It was still dark. She just stood there. I had buried her only a few days ago.

“She’s back!” said Olive. She started to run towards her.

“Wait!” said Sarna. “She’s not right.” The wobbly hen stood in a puddle, not clucking, not scratching, listing to the left. “He buried her out back where the ground is sour.” said Sarna in her best Fred Gwynn voice. I looked again. “She came back but she didn’t come back right!” Olive didn’t care. It took three hens to hold her back. Olive’s going to need therapy.

When I looked again is when I saw it, the little spiky feathers on the head, the skinny, skinny legs. “Great, Wiggy. Just great. How did you get out there anyway?” I scolded all of them for their prank and told them to apologize to Olive.

4/8/15

I was listening to Vermont Public Radio and the announcer said that in recognition of National Poultry Month they would have Vermonters reading about what poultry means to them. I was thrilled. He went on about it, and how the Vermont Poult Laureate was going to... oh, my mistake. They meant Poetry Month. bah! Well, in recognition of Outlaw Poultry Poetry Month I found this on the back of a feed bag in the garage. Munin came to me sometime back and asked that I write it down for him. It was a poem he wanted to give to one of the girls. He couldn't remember which. It went:

Who but I has shanks like these?
My face is full of blood.
Sickle, sickle tail.
In the pasture my posture is a portrayal of perfection.
Have you heard me crow?
Of course you have.

He blinked once or twice. I thought he was being noble, trying to think of words that weren't about himself. Then he lost it. He just forgot entirely what he was doing. He looked at me, disregarded me, then hiked to the top of the compost pile and crowed. Maybe that was part of the poem.

August 20, 2017

The big eggclipse nears and Green Coop is making ready. I noticed this morning they have hung Christmas stockings. Tri-Tip was casual about it. I think they are betting I’ll give in and fill them.
Wiggy asked if she could borrow the pickup and drive everyone to South Carolina. I told her that would be a staggeringly bad idea. Not only for the because chickens can’t reach the brakes but because it's a very long way and chickens fall asleep the moment it gets dark.
I warned all of the chickens not to look directly at the eggclipse. I have made them all viewing glasses.

Tuffet, our youngest said, "I'll look if I want to. You can't stop me."

I said, "You can get severe eye damage. I'm not kidding."

She said, "You still can't stop me. Don't try to stop me." I'll make sure she keeps her glasses on. Somehow.

August 21, 2017

Mattie told the other hens and Silver about the eggclipse event and how it unfolds. She told them how the Night Egg has come to be candled and how all can see the Great Comb of the Day Egg as it lights it from behind. As the moment approached the hens of Green Coop had reached a zenith of sorts. Honey BBQ scratched at the turntable while M’Eggan read her poetry aloud. I was the first to notice the dimming light. Light through pinholes landed as cresents. Shadows through trees had bites taken from them. The sounds of the barnyard dimmed. The music stopped. I turned around as the eclipse neared totality and saw the good and wholesome hens of green coop making their way to bed. They walked past me, already half asleep. They got onto their roosts. They started nodding off. All of that and they go to sleep… Good night, faithful Egg Culters. I’ll see you in a few minutes and fill you in.