I’m reasonably sure that chickens do not celebrate Christmas, either in the religious sense or in terms of rampant consumerism. (After all, they have no cash and no credit cards.) But our small corner of the world was so hushed when I went out to feed our two Rhode Island Reds at dawn, so tranquil and serene, that the long walk along the winding path from the garage to the coop at the back of our lot seemed almost magical.
Day in and day out, in the warmth of July and the snows of February, I always say good morning to "the girls" when they emerge from the coop first thing in the morning. But today, when each of the hens headed down the ramp and into the pen, I wished Nellie, and then Hope, a Merry Christmas. Somehow, it seemed fitting, even while talking to the humblest among us.
Day in and day out, in the warmth of July and the snows of February, I always say good morning to "the girls" when they emerge from the coop first thing in the morning. But today, when each of the hens headed down the ramp and into the pen, I wished Nellie, and then Hope, a Merry Christmas. Somehow, it seemed fitting, even while talking to the humblest among us.
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