April 18th, we brought home 6 baby chicks from the Rural King, in Radford.
Four months later on Friday, August 18th, a first egg appeared.
Usually, all the girls come out their door like a fountain of birds, hurriedly, though always first taking some precautions. One sister’s head and long neck will lean out, her eyes open to this side, then that, sometimes looking up as well. Another sister, or two, will interrupt, and push around her. Then someone will fly, hop, or one foot at a time, step gingerly down their tiny green ladder, until everyone hits the grass, beginning another sweet morning.
But last Friday, Cinnabon didn’t come out with the others until mid-morning. The flock of five went up the red stairs, by the Moon-House, below their forsythia trees where they dust bathe in the root-bare shade, and into the woods, hopping over a gopher’s hole. They left her to take care of her magical nesting box task.
Somehow, even without mothers, they knew eggs were on their way, or did they? They stopped using their nesting box as an auxiliary bed and bathroom. A week before the first egg, the pine shavings there stayed fresh.
From our bedroom, I could hear Cinnabon let out a lonesome cry. She wailed to be nearer to her “seester” pack. I ran outside, worried something had gone wrong, but she was fine. She wanted to be with her flock. I walked with her up to the wood line calling out: “Chiiiccckkkennns?, Chiiiccckkkennns? Come-chickens-come!” And Cinnabon also cried out.
First, Fluffy-foot deep in the thicket, near an abandoned house, let out her acknowledging honk, and after some delay, we heard the rustle of leaves and small chick-like peeping murmurs. One at a time, her seesters appeared, through the open windows of green and woody underbrush: Fluffyfoot, Bitumin, Tiny-Honey… and after a longer wait, Big-Sweetie, and finally green-eared Lightfoot (Lightning), appeared, distracted by each stem, leaf, and root, taking their time.
They gathered around Cinnabon, and followed me, first to the Shed, where they were babies, and I treated them with party flock breakfast blend, shaking it in a plastic cup. Then Cinnabon led me back to their coop, though only to drink water. I peeked my head inside their nesting box, and saw it, a perfect little egg: her first one. How beautiful! Would she be sad if I took it? I asked her, and she seemed not to mind. I brought it to show her, but she was only half interested. I showed her sisters. They too, appeared, if momentarily curious, more interested in the breakfast blend snacks, and scratching in the grass.
Cinnabon’s eggs have been continuous, one a day, for eleven days straight. They’re cream colored, with strong smooth shells, and heavier than they look for their size, smaller than eggs from the store. Her third egg was slightly larger and had a lucky second yolk.
Today, 11 days later, I see the group of five, without Big Sweetie, this time. They run to me from the side shed, where they’ve been rooting apart a straw bale, one little tug of their toes at a time. I ask them where Big Sweetie is, and call out for her? Always there is a little tug of terror when one chicken is missing and not there with the rest. But she appeared, unusually disinterested in everyone (unusual as she is the empath of our flock), roughing up with her dainty legs and claws the rocks beside the Moon-House door. Unalarmed to be without her flock.
Is it Big Sweetie’s egg? I don’t know, but sure enough, a second egg appeared in the nesting box, around noon (Sunday, Aug. 27th). This one is slightly pinker, with tiny white spots.
Just yesterday we noticed a new feature on Big Sweetie’s wings, beautiful long feathered racing stripes, that seemed to appear out of nowhere, like a great sleek sash. And how floppy her bright red comb was combed over her head top like a wave. Their combs and wattles I think must be, the inspiration for the first jewelry.