Sometimes when I feel cold in the house I’ll think of the chickens in the coop. They can’t put on jackets, they can’t start fires, and they can’t read to distract themselves from how cold they are. They just sit and meditate in it. Like little zen masters, each one of them.

Mr. Darcey, our favorite chicken, our rooster, was badly bullied by his son, Shady. We ate him for lunch today, and he’s made a very nice stock in fridge.

Darcey is still recovering, his comb is bloody and frost bitten, as it is every winter, and he’s all scrunched up when he sits. This is what chickens do, apparently. They lay low and get small, keeping to themselves while they heal. What else are they supposed to do?

The coop is insulated, all the windows are shut, there’s no wind and the door is tiny. But the chickens don’t know to huddle together, it’s a hard existence for them. I’d be inclied to add a light, but, I don’t think it’d make that great of a difference, really.

I hope it isn’t too miserable, these long Vermont winters.

I think this summer we’ll open the gate and let them wander around a bit, I think that would be nice for them to do, and nice for us to watch