It is raining again, which means that the hens are bored and a tad uncomfortable. Their feathers are bedraggled. Instead of lolling about in the warm dirt taking dust baths, they brave the rain for a few minutes, then crowd inside the henhouse. Instead of quickly laying their eggs and hurrying outside to find a curiosity or a tidbit, they want to hunker down in a nesting box.

We have three nesting boxes for eleven hens, which is usually plenty. But Snowball and Blackie are broody, so they have staked out two and are immovable. That leaves only one box. Marge claimed it this morning. Ginger glared impatiently at Marge, like a customer waiting in line at a restaurant who stares at the seated person who is finishing her dessert, preventing her from lingering over coffee. Marge stayed put.

Perrie didn’t bother to wait. She hopped in – right on top of Snowball, shoving the little white hen to the back of the box. Snowball stayed put.

It is time to order more nesting boxes.