We have eggs!
Our chicks (see Swamp People) grew into hens. Their down has been replaced by glossy, silky-soft feathers. Except for on their bottoms; they still have down there, making them look like they’re wearing fluffy fuzzy bloomers.
Their bodies are full and matronly. They don’t innocently peep anymore. Their grown up noises are a far cry from both innocence and gentility: squawking, screeching, and my favorite: clucking. The clucking, though still not quite ladylike, is sweet and matronly, but unfortunately (at least Nora thinks it’s unfortunate…and actually I have to agree), none of them will ever be mothers. We chose a no-rooster policy after our second rooster (adopted from our neighbor by Nora, who would adopt anything that breathed…especially if it would increase the chances of chicks happening) flung himself like a feathered dagger at our legs (he was undersized; had he been a bit taller, it would have been our backs). But I digress from the hens.
I mentioned clucking. It is a contented, domestic sound. There is another sound the hens make when they have just laid an egg. I’m not sure what to call this sound. It is rhythmic (sometimes incessantly so), but it is also wild and I think a little distressed, or perhaps amazed? A communal alarm…Fire! Tornado! Earthquake! Somewhere between a screech and a squawk, over and over. New layers make this sound even before they lay their eggs, when they are just contemplating the possibility. Sometimes other hens join in, and there is a sympathetic chorus to welcome the advent of a new egg. Or at least the promise of a new egg.
We celebrate…daily… that our hens have moved from probabilities to actualities. We really don’t mind the noise that it takes to make good eggs (and our neighbors don’t seem to mind either; we are lucky to have chosen a neighborhood that embraces the concept of urban farming).
And what a lot of them. Most of our hens will lay an egg almost every day, which means somewhere in the neighborhood of a dozen eggs a day. Whew!
