Cleo is brooding again. Cleo - short for "Cleopatra" - is the Light Sussex hen who has taken up residence in the further reaches beneath the freshman coop. Presumably on top of eggs. It happened once before, not quite a year ago, and so we recognize the signs. She rarely moves. Occasionally I see her sipping from the waterer or taking in a little feed, but mostly she settles herself in the bedding in the crawl space beneath the coop. We have another week or so to wait before learning if there is actually something to hatch beneath her maternally spread frame, or if she has simply wearied of the company of her coop mates and opted for more private accommodations. I'm betting on the former. 
Last time this happened, the resulting chick received hovering supervision until the three care-giving nanny hens offered it enough space and exposure to apparently come to a bad end. But that hatch occurred beneath a different, more public coop. This time, the brooding is playing out beneath the freshman coop which is already secluded and separately fenced. Should new life emerge, I'm determined to give it a better chance. Yesterday I added a new layer of more securing fence inside the existing mesh, just in case.
The garden fence, too, has needed some attention. A deer fence surrounds the entirety of it, but while the polypropylene mesh satisfactorily keeps away the deer, rabbits are undeterred. Hence, the additional layer of chicken wire around the entire 1/3 acre circumference. But after 8+ years, even the chicken wire has been breached. There are holes. Here and there. Vulnerabilities.
Already needing to modify the outline of the fence, we took this week's opportunity to remove all the old wire and prepare the perimeter for new. In the coming days we will pull intruding grasses, lay out shade cloth, and encircle the growing space with fresh protection.
In our off-minutes, we have pulled emerging grasses from around the rhubarb just peaking above the surface.
It has felt good, and productive in this season when vulnerability is the only news.
Here in the midst of virus-necessitated semi-isolation on the farmstead, we have been dutifully compliant - washing our hands, sanitizing countertops, keeping our distance from lurking infection, eating healthy foods, and opening ourselves to the sunshine whenever it chooses to break through the spring clouds and rain. And that is all well and good. Good, and prudent, but ultimately grounded in fear. Protecting ourselves is certainly a priority, but anticipating chicks hatching beneath the coop and food growing in the garden is a welcome alternative. It feels hopeful more than fearful.
Generative more than precautionary.
Incubational more than prophylactic.
And as I say, it feels good - to protect, to anticipate, to plant seeds in the greenhouse; to do more than wait and prevent, but to prepare...
...and protect.
It's not enough, after all, to merely live another day. It is beckoning to think there might be something warm and animated and nourishing in that next day that warrants us being there.
