Chicks transform from puff balls into adult hens in mere months. It’s as if a movie is being played in fast-action 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. Feathers 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. The hen is seven. She’s not as glossy. She’s not laying. She’s old.
Time is like that, it telescopes in and out depending on what is in front of you. I have chicks and old hens in the same picture. It’s a bit disconcerting. But when you see me sitting amongst the new birds and the Old Girls, it might look like I’m trying to make sense of it all. I’m not. I’m just there. Rather like the animals around me.