Hen Chronicles: Here's a way to mark the arrival of winter

It isn’t winter just yet. Technically. But here in northern New England, we don’t have to rely on calendars to tell us when the season has arrived.

For one thing, we’ve already had two snowstorms in central Maine; I made the switch to snow tires last week. The ice scraper has migrated from the back of the car to the front seat. The trusty thermometer outside the kitchen window leaves no room for doubt. The woodstove has been pressed into service. And the dogs suddenly have become mighty efficient about doing their business when I take them out at 5 a.m.

Then there’s the most reliable indicator of all. It’s to be found in the chicken coop.

I scoop out the coop every morning to remove the previous nights “offerings.” Our three hens seem to do their best pooping overnight, judging by the fact that there’s always more telltale evidence in the coop at dawn than outside in the pen at the end of the day.

Saturday was no exception, but one thing had changed. It was 22 degrees outside at 6 a.m., and for the first time since last winter, the chickens’ droppings in the coop were frozen. Solid. When I tossed these “nuggets” into a bucket, they landed with a rock-like thud. (The hens, on the other hand, were just fine. Feathers are a wonderful invention.)

So now it’s official. You don't have to read chicken entrails to know what the future holds; chicken poop offers a more reliable forecast, at least in the meteorological department. Notwithstanding the calendar’s claims, "the girls" have made it clear that winter is upon us, so we might as well hunker down for the long haul.