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).
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.
No comments:
Post a Comment