The Minnesota Farm Woman

HE thinks it was a hawk or an eagle. I think it was pack of salivating rabid wolves with red eyes. Whatever it was, there was nothing left of my poor chicken but a scattering of feathers near the back field. I had a hard time rounding them up that evening. A few were huddled in the pole building, a few in the coop. One went so far as to scoot into a corner as far as she could go. I talked to her softly, trying to soothe her fright, and she looked back at me as if she understood my words. I checked the corners of the coop for predators. Raccoons, weasels, and even skunks will kill chickens. Hawks, eagles, and salivating rabid wolves, too. Sadly, I counted fourteen. Down two. I herded the frightened stragglers in and locked the coop down tight for the night. I checked the long grass by the creek, in case by some miracle they were alive. I whistled down the rows of corn, tall as I am. They usually come when I whistle. I sat on the back steps until it was dark. Sadly, I went inside. Fourteen. Later, I thought I would check one more time, so ventured outside with a flashlight. Looking for a black chicken in the dark is kind of like looking for a needle in a haystack, but I found her, huddled up against the big old garage that shares a wall with the coop. Fifteen. I smiled as I shooed her inside, trying to get her into the coop by way of the back door. Having witnessed the recent tragedy, she was skittish and wouldn’t go in. Standing in the middle of that old garage, I was skittish myself, having awakened a bat by turning the light on, and he was flying around and around the rafters. My mind could have been playing tricks on me, but I swear that bat was salivating and probably rabid, and it had red eyes. I left them both inside the old garage, safe for the night. Bats do not kill chickens, but could possibly cause an old Farm Woman to die of fright by flying too close to her head. The next morning, she scooted right inside about the same time that the corner-hiding hen was taking her last breaths. Probably died of fright…or old age. Back to fourteen again, and in the blink of an eye, too. Life is short, even more so for chickens. I’m glad the last words she heard were kind ones.