The beauties from our backyard that are pictured below ripened last week, before overnight temperatures plummeted to the 20s. I picked almost all of these raspberries Saturday and Sunday, but instead of savoring them myself, as one last rite of a summer that already feels like a time long gone, I gave them to our three hens.
Snow, Nellie and Hope gobbled them down with the gusto they always display whenever berries come their way. But the fact that they, not I, got this late-season snack raises an obvious question that I've asked myself time and time again in recent years: Who's really in charge here? Me? Or the chickens? I'm afraid to spend too long contemplating this, for fear of the answer.
Snow, Nellie and Hope gobbled them down with the gusto they always display whenever berries come their way. But the fact that they, not I, got this late-season snack raises an obvious question that I've asked myself time and time again in recent years: Who's really in charge here? Me? Or the chickens? I'm afraid to spend too long contemplating this, for fear of the answer.
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