The chickens hang out undercover when the wet drippy bits fall down. They poop their too. Then they get bored and scratch around in search of yummy chicken vittles. Here we are in June. The solstice imminent and there’s a strange Seattle feeling in the air. Though, I’m not complaining. The cows are amazing. Brent’s management has been keeping our grass vs mud in order. There has been very little damage. There has been very much grass growth.
Kevin has agrandit his peep of babes. He has a new coop that was constructed by our friendly neighbors which is totally amazing and he has settled in quite nicely. My basil and persil and coriander can now stop quivering. My tomatoes can finally grow and supply the family with great salsa for future Meh-hee-cana yum to come.
The three black hens were moved in with thirty others and three chicks. The white lady is still running around the farm as she prefers to roost in the trees. Someday or never we’ll get her merged. Our rogue white chicken lays her one egg a day, carry’s on with her life, doesn’t miss her daily “visit” from Kevin … I think we’ll call her Stella. Kevin is also processing his dream come true. We ( okay, I ) often giggle at the anthropomorphic letter Kevin wrote to his cousin about the amazing day he had.“Dear Phil, you will never believe what happened. There I was, snuggled in for the night when I was gently grabbed, carried upside-down across the courtyard, fluffed and manicured only to be checked in to a henderland paradise hotel from heaven. Thirty available chicks, Phil. All clucky and well adjusted. They’re French. They worship me, Phil, worship. Longer letter later. Too busy. K.I.T.