Snow was falling as I trudged out to the chicken yard. It had begun in the darkness, already carpeting the front porch by the time first light sparkled the fresh descent. My booted footfalls crunched across the lawn’s accumulation, while the flakes fluttered and played and found their rest on bristled evergreens and hydrangea remnants, an uninhibited bird nest, and finally my eyelashes and nose. Celestial cashmere petals of chill.
It was cold, but the temperature was hard to notice amidst the atmospheric magic. In these moments the eyes were in charge moreso than the skin - apart, that is, from the shivers of delight.
With my opening of the hatches and lowering of the ramps, the chickens were free to descend and range the yard, but none seized the opportunity. Dwayne the rooster was crowing the sun up, but preferred to welcome the morning from the comfort of the wood shavings bedding the coop and the surrounding nestled warmth of the communal quarters. They will come down eventually - they get hungry, after all, and curious - but this morning they are happy to take it slowly. I can almost picture them inside lazying together with the poultry equivalent of a cup of coffee and the Saturday edition of The New York Times, in no rush to trouble the new day.
...Happily content to sit, to be, to count flakes through the frosted window, and smile at the memory of more than a few of them dancing on my nose, and settling in my lashes like pines.
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