the right bird

As clouds literally gather in the gulf, the Republicans assemble in Florida, and the country’s future once again hangs in the balance.  As the candidates and their families are presented to the nation, I find myself reflecting on how the chicken is poorly suited for modern politics. 

Imagine cameras zooming in as a rooster of magnificent plumage ascends to the podium, but instead of spewing platitudes, the talking head casts nervously about, as if cats lurked behind the bunting. Checking the stage for earwigs on national TV does not boost the confidence of one’s constituency, and they come to doubt your ability to rescue them following a hurricane.

The chicken is not the only bird unsuited for mass media. The hawk perched on a powerline evokes wiretaps, the wide-eyed owl blinking “who, me?” makes us wonder if there’s cold cash stashed in the office freezer. We know the nuthatch flitting from branch to branch can’t spell tomato, and the bushtit, by virtue of it’s name alone, brings to mind the Monkey Business and fact-finding trips to Argentina.

On the other hand, the hummingbirds who convene annually at our feeder, would do well in Congress, as they quarrel continuously, and despite the ruckus, manage to sneak in & siphon off a little syrup for themselves from time to time.  A turkey will never head a presidential ticket, but by virtue of it’s name, and native roots, could make an admirable vice-president.

Benjamin Franklin denigrated the character of the bald eagle, but it’s nomination for the national bird was visionary.  How can we not be impressed by its furrowed brow and intense gaze?  It’s tongue may not be golden, but it’s beak certainly is.  Instead of dropping into the convention by parachute, it soars in through an open window, circles above the frenzied delegates & lights on the dais before the microphones.  Our hearts catch in our throats as it stares into the camera.  We love this bird!  Reporters may notice the stench of dead fish, but we’re in no mood for their ungrateful grumbling.

Coo, coo, ca choo!

morning, noon & night

The hens are friends who crowd around the door of the roost to greet me at the first sound of my footsteps each morning.  They are genial neighbors who rise from their porches in welcome when I drop by for a visit in the middle of the day.

But in the evening, when I saunter benevolently down to latch the roost door, ensuring their safe passage through the night, they cast about with nervous glances, as if expecting that I will ask to see their green cards.

Lousy ingrates!  Can they not know that I am literally saving their lives, as I did the night before, and all the nights before that?

Apparently not tonight, and probably not tomorrow night either.  I latch the door and cheerfully bid them good evening, then latch the gate & stroll reflectively back to the house.

We yearn for that which we cannot obtain.  Tomorrow evening, the fading light will catch my eye, turning my thoughts to chickens, and I will, once again, saunter hopefully down the gravel path.

Coo, coo, ca choo.

a menacing stargazer

The spotlight of the late-rising crescent moon blinked through the trees.  Perseus soared high overhead, vaulting the earth as he has since the beginning of imagination.

Against the staid background of constellations, meteors flashed soundlessly.  Most vanished within the first heartbeat, but some few rained stardust from long white wakes.

Silent as the celestial shower, the hens listened apprehensively to the approach of heavy footsteps on the pavement next to the roost, the creaking protests of an old chaise lounge, a muffled rustle as a blanket was shaken out.  A long silence, then more rustling, creaking & heavy footfall, now receding in the direction of the dark house.

The reassuring silence slowly regrouped. Under the roost, moonlight flecked the ground as a breeze moved through the maples.  A hen rustled her feathers, and they waited together for the night to end.

Coo, coo, ca choo.

what better to do?

The decorous succession of clear, but well-tempered days seduced my weathered skepticism so I was caught off-guard when the sun came a-blazing this weekend.

Rather than frying an egg on the driveway, Mary departed for Dallas (Oregon) and returned in high spirits, charmed by the rural town and packing almost a dozen fertile eggs, which she nestled them under our broody buff orpington (ie big hen with golden feathers, who sits all day in her nesting box, for the uninitiated).

All went swimmingly until the next afternoon, when, with the thermometer nearing 100, our designated mother-to-be bolted the stifling coop for the first time in weeks.  A tense development, to be sure, since the eggs need her body heat to incubate.  Fortunately, she returned to the eggs instead of roosting up,  so, with no other option, we decided it was just the heat & that the eggs would be ok.

a portrait of the brooder as a young hen

A repeat occurrence the next afternoon made us more confident in our diagnoses.  Baking in the sun, the air in the coop felt like it might soft-boil the eggs - we united behind our hen in sympathy.

In a couple weeks, if the eggs haven’t hatched, we’ll check one to see how it tastes with toast.  Stay tuned...

Coo, coo, ca choo.