A Cue From The Molting Hens

The hens are molting.  Losing  last years feathers and growing a new feather coat for the winter.

They’re less active when they’re molting.

All summer long KittyAnne and Mean Hen were out in the barn yard and pastures, in the front and back yard pecking away at insects and plants.   Always busy, moving great distances, plucking seeds from the tall grasses, running to me every time the saw me, expecting a snack.

When I opened their coop in the morning they could hardly wait to jump out and get to it.

Now they spend most of the their time under the lilacs.   They don’t even try to steal Zip’s food anymore and are in no hurry to leave the coop.

They’re conserving their energy, saving their strength to grow their new feathers which will keep them warm this winter.

I know they spend some time in the pole barn because I see their feathers there.  It’s one of their safe places among the sheep, peacefully chewing their cud after a night of grazing.

I won’t expect anymore eggs until the days start getting longer again in the spring.

I take a cue from the hens, knowing it’s time to start slowing down.

Soon I’ll be coming in the house from my studio at 4pm, when the night and cold come early.  And when I wake up at 6am, it will be even darker than it was this morning.  I’ll walk my morning meditations to stay warm, or will meditate to the pings and clicks of the woods stove heating up after growing cold overnight.

Someone told me that all the goldenrod this year is a sign of an early fall.  Already the sun is making a habit of showing up only in the mornings before the clouds move in.  Like an early November.

I’ll take the sun when I can get it, watch it dance with the shadows of the leaves still on the trees, a burst of life, in sharp contrast before the long sleep.