I’m at work on a couple of blog posts that are taking time to write. In the meanwhile, I thought I’d repeat a post that I did a few years ago. Many people are getting teeny fluffy chicks for the first time. Those little puffballs look so adorable that it’s hard to imagine them all grown up. The photos below are a reality check. That small box you’ve planned to use as the brooder will not do. Get that coop built!

Chicks transform from puff balls into adult hens in mere months. It’s as if a movie is being played in fast-forward mode.

This is a Buff Orpington at one week of age, which is the quintessence of what people think that a chick should be. This stage doesn’t last more than a moment.

Blink. Feathers coming in.

Blink. Down gone.

Blink. Wings flapping. Dust baths and foraging outside.

Blink. Combs on heads and large feet digging up the dirt. At 20 weeks, she’s laying eggs.

Blink. The hen is two.

And then time slows. Years go by. This hen is seven. She’s not as glossy. She’s not laying. She’s old. I like the Grand Dame hens as much as the puffball chicks. I like that we’ve gotten to know each other. This year I have plenty of productive layers. I won’t be adding chicks. Do you have chicks in a brooder?

First it grew in a field. Birds rested on it. Then it sparkled in a living room, and Santa placed gifts under the branches. Then it gave the goats something to nibble at this long, dreary, snowy winter.

Months passed. The goats ate the needles. The goats ate the bark. The Goat Maid use the branches as a hay manger. It slowed down the speed of the goaties’ munchings, but they were still able to find every strand of hay. They complained that it was often empty.

Shedding season arrived. The tree kept on giving.

It’s the perfect goat scratching post!

It was a blustery and chilly day on Saturday, but the sun was out. Before beginning my barn chores, I opened up the doors to the chicken pens.

Hens don’t form a queue. It was a bit of a jumble at the gate, but they soon spread out.

The Girls from the Little Barn came down to the Big Barn. They don’t often come this way – the flocks don’t mingle by their own choice – but the ground that they usually forage on is still covered with snow.

The Gems took no mind of the interlopers. They’d already made their way to the beech trees and the perennial bed.

There was plenty of room for all.

It was a day to strut.