For the last two days the talking coming out of the Big Barn has sounded different. Instead of chirpy, “I found a bug” and “oh, the chicken servant is here to feed us” chatter, I heard a lower, more insistent chuck-chuck-chucking voice of a hen who has laid an egg. It’s a stand up and take notice voice. A proud, pay attention voice.

I checked the barn several times yesterday. No chicken sitting in a nest. No egg hiding. But I did notice that the shavings in the boxes had been rearranged and the wooden eggs pushed aside.

I heard that voice again. I ran out to the barn. Nothing.

Steve saw one of the Rhode Island Reds anxiously checking out all corners of the pen. She went up the roost. “Shall I lay it here?” She went into the corner of the compost. “Here?” She perched on top of the camera. “Here?” Steve watched for awhile. No egg.

Then, about 4 o’clock in the afternoon all was quiet. And this was in the box.

It’s a light brown, absolutely smooth like marble, medium-sized egg. There was a smear of blood on it, which is not unusual for the first one. I wiped it off with a damp paper towel and put it in the egg rack in the kitchen. It’s beautiful.

Perhaps Ruby laid it. Or maybe her twin, Garnet. These two look and act alike. The only way I can tell them apart is by the blue leg band I put on Garnet.

Who will lay an egg today? I’m baking bread. The dough is rising in the kitchen. I’m ready for toast and omelets for dinner.

I had the perfect composting system in the Gem’s run. There were two bins made out of wood pallets. I put garden and kitchen waste, and used goat bedding in one, and when that filled up I switched to the other. Meanwhile, the chickens scratched and turned the piles, shredded all the material into tiny bits, and added manure. After a year of letting it rest, I shovel out gorgeous, loose, rich compost, which is perfect for the garden.

I’ve had this set up for several years. I never had a problem with it when the old girls lived in the barn (these are the hens you now see on the HenCam.) Then the Gems moved into this barn, and they took right to their compost duty of turning and scratching. But, two days ago, I had to dismantle one of the bins. It’s Agatha’s fault.

Agatha saw the bins’ potential- as a launching pad. Despite the twine criss-crossed over the run to keep the hawks out, and despite the fact that she’s a heavy Speckled Sussex who is decidedly not aerodynamic, Agatha flapped her way here:

The other chickens were astounded, but remained on the ground, that is until Onyx leapt up to join the instigator.

Doesn’t Agatha look pleased with her new vantage point?

Obviously, despite their glee, this is not a good idea. The fence keeps them safe. They’re about to launch themselves further afield into a yard with dogs and hawks, fox and coyote. I had to get them back into their pen.

Agatha thought about stepping down onto my arm, but even standing on a stool, I was too far off.

I was just able to reach up to poke their chests and push them back into their run. Their landing wasn’t exactly elegant, but it didn’t hurt, either.

Now, there’s just one compost bin in the run. I’m putting more string up, too. If bulky, awkward Agatha can get out, a hawk can fly in.

They’re safe. For now. But who knows what Agatha will think up next?

Ten years ago my sons were eight and four years old. We had a small room, not much bigger than a walk-in closet, that we used as the “lego space.” Both boys were avid builders. Those first days, after hearing the news, I sat in the room with my youngest son while he and I played. Without thinking about what I was doing, I constructed towers. Solid, tall, colorful, beautiful towers. During the few hours in the morning that he went to preschool, I went back into the room and kept building. I didn’t recognize what I was doing that first week. I built with those legos until the tips of my fingers were sore.

Solid lego towers use up hundreds of bricks. Eventually they were needed for other buildings. There were castles and shops. Airports. Pizza parlors. Slowly my lego towers were taken apart and used again. It’s an apt metaphor. When disaster strikes, work through grief, then build and rebuild, not to put the past aside but to use it as a base for an ongoing life.

I have one tower left. It’s not the biggest, or the prettiest, but I’ve had it above my office bookcase for years. It’s solid all the way through.

This is the third day of rain. For the last two days there’s been an intermittent mild drizzle. I was able to pick tomatoes, the chickens were in and out and in and out, and Lily chased squirrels.

But today it is dark and pouring. The pond is near to over-flowing. The fish don’t mind a bit, in fact they seem to enjoy exploring new areas.

Candy is not so happy. Getting her furry feet wet annoys her to no end. By the way, note the toy with the bell hanging on her door. Candy knows how to use it and will ring it to get attention and tell us that her food bowl is empty. Also, note Twinkydink under the hutch. She did have to walk through the rain to get there, but it’s a dry spot out of the hubbub of the coop.

Inside the HenCam coop, the hens are eating and milling about. Often the Polish don’t have the sense to get in out of the rain, but today it’s bad enough that both Siouxsie and Tina are indoors. Siouxsie looks like a poster child for the expression, “mad as a wet hen”, but that’s how she always looks.

The Gems are dry and have plenty of room indoors. Perhaps boredom will induce one to lay an egg today?

Goats hate to get wet. Absolutely loathe it. So, I didn’t open their door this morning, and I gave them some extra hay. It’ll be gone soon, and I can’t keep giving them more. Goats do overeat. I’ll go out later and give them a few green beans, which is a good use of the big and starchy haricot vert that hide in the garden and can only be found when they are inedible for human consumption.

Of all of the animals, one knows best what to do on a rainy day.

Scooter refuses to get out of bed.

Wouldn’t you want this face greeting you every morning?

This is Pip’s “More green beans, please. Now. But not the wilted ones,” face.