And, a tiny little Happily Ever After.

Last night at dusk, as Starboard and the other kids were starting to get ready for bed, we brought Punt out to the nursery. We gently placed her beside Starboard, close enough the baby could nestle under mom if she wanted, and where Starboard could see her but hopefully not deliver a killing blow before she recognized the intruder. The three sibs stood up tall as geese and watched the newcomer carefully. We watched carefully, too. We didn’t know if Starboard would recognize Punt, after her week in neonatal sick bay. Grown chickens are so astronomically bigger than week-old chicks. I had seen a hen reject a baby before, and it only took a couple blows of that dinosaur beak to cause real damage. Punt was scared. She started beeping her Red Alert (Lonely), the one that had me regularly running to the bathroom (where sick bay is) to crouch beside the box and dangle my hand inside, to give Punt someone to interact with. I used my fingers to indicate things to try, some food or water, and to encourage her to preen, and to scratch in the hay for tidbits. As she got stronger I taught her to run back and forth across the box to find the hand and receive tickles. When she got tired she’d sit on my palm and sing to herself.

As soon as Punt started sounding Red Alert, Starboard went into action. She began clucking in a particular way that—judging from the actions of the other siblings--means, “just come right over here under my wings, dearie, Mommy’s got you.” Punt tried to hide. Starboard picked up her skirts and followed, trying to settle over her, but Punt dodged. It was like watching someone try to catch a bug under a cup.

Starboard never stopped clucking the safety song. Punt gradually went quiet. We stole away, but Punt followed and initiated Red Alert again.

I managed to stay away a full 15 minutes. In the uneven flashlight glare, I saw that Starboard had settled with the other chicks, and Punt was right in front of her. Starboard was still singing. Punt was quiet, but uncertain. Starboard reached her big teradactyl head toward the baby and I held my breath. Would she peck? But she just rubbed her cheek along the baby’s side, and Punt took a hesitant step closer.

At the next check, all was quiet and there were no chicks visible. Punt had made it home.

In the morning, Punt still remembers her hand mom, and paid me a visit, though she soon wandered off after her family. She’s a bit smaller than her siblings, and not as sure of what her mom is saying. But it looks like happily ever after, to me.

The delicacy and tenacity of a tiny life.

When Starboard finally arose from the nest after her latest clutch hatched, we discovered one little brown chick not doing so well. The last to hatch, maybe it was a little premature. Maybe it got chilled as it emerged, since mom was already busy with the three older chicks. While its three siblings bopped around, fluffy and beeping, this one sprawled helplessly in the detritus of the nest, amid broken shells and the extra stinky poop bombs a broody hen leaves behind. We opened the cage to start cleaning up the mess, upsetting Starboard (who is a particularly intense mom), and in her protective flurry she trompled the weak chick.

We successfully extracted the baby, which seemed a little chilled, and not in control of its muscles. I gave it to a friend to hold and warm while I cleaned out the nest and put in some fresh hay and starter crumbles.

And when my friend opened his hands so we could examine the rescued chick, it popped off his palm like a jumping bean and plopped four feet to the ground. Thankfully, gravity is merciful on the little creatures, and it seemed no worse off than before.

So we brought the poor wee mite inside, put it on a heating pad, left it to warm up. So tiny, so frail, it slept like a dead thing for nearly 24 hours. Since we lumber all of Starboard’s children with the nautical names, and because life-drop kicked this one into existence, we named it Punt. During that first day I was equally sure each time I checked that Punt would die any second, and that Punt would be fine. Optimistically, because it would be annoying to expend all this rescue effort for a rooster, we decided Punt is a pullet. Her troubles seemed neurological, so we hoped she would get better as she grew up. Gradually, she found her feet--not without some drama, like a near-death tumble into her water bowl--and I succumbed to the charm of her exceptional effort to live, and the scary, rigor mortis abandon of her sleep. After 36 hours, to my great relief, she started showing interest in food and water. After 48, she was able to motivate around her box, although at first her walk was more of a semi-controlled tumble.

She’s nearly a week old today, and we’re thinking we might be able to re-introduce her to her family tonight or tomorrow. She interested in everything, and moving around pretty well, though she remains a bit unsteady on her pins.

Little Punt’s first week has been especially poignant to me, coinciding as it has with the week I underwent laproscopic abdominal surgery. Watching her struggle and try, rest and explore, she seems to exude a perfect trust in her world, and her process. We’re getting better together.

Shiitakes happen...

Our latest addition...one four foot shiitake log. When we got it home, we found the perfect little copse for our future mushroom farm, and I started the fruiting process by soaking the log for 24 hours. Then the weather did us a solid and turned rainy and cool for several days. One week from purchase, we have mushrooms started. Happiness.

in just spring

There is no better weather than this.
The woods are waking, noisy with birds, vivid with tender bright leaves budding against the blue, blue sky, and the first flush of flowers. Azalea, jessamine, plum, huckleberry, violet. On the forest floor, the first lovely shoots of nettles, greenbriar, pokeweed.
All six hens are laying, even the youngest, who are no older than six months, and the oldest, who must be near seven years.
This week the sandhills flew over, great skeins of them, trumpeting, coursing straight north, their v-formation like the wake of the Lady's trailing fingers, drawing the new season along the sky.

Eggies!

This morning when I let the birds out, Starboard made a beeline for the stack of dog crates over by the studio. Oh, ho, ho, I chortled, because we have had to BUY eggs all winter, and let me tell you it's annoying to buy eggs when you are feeding 13 birds! I sneaked this picture. You can just see her, the brown lump in the second floor. I dared not come closer, for she is a canny beast! So canny, in fact, that she did not tip me off by singing an egg song when she hopped down to joined the others for breakfast.
Good thing I was watching.

After checking to be sure she wasn't looking, I went to collect MY breakfast.
And what did I find? NINETEEN eggs! Oh, what a sneaky bird! Some were obviously oldest--pale, and grubby. I left two of those, as bait, and once inside I opened one of the most dubious looking--it's fine, sweet smelling and clear. Most folks don't realize that a clean eggs from a healthy bird will keep at least two weeks without refrigeration, even in hot weather. Think about it: a hen lays roughly one egg a day. She will plop out those eggs for as long as it takes to get a clutch size she likes--usually 8-12 eggs (apparently, Starboard, flush from her first success as a mom, was going for broke with 19!). It stands to reason that the first eggs can't spoil before the last one is laid, or the clutch would be doomed.
Chickens also tend to lay eggs communally; that is, more than one hen will use the same nest. That's why we sometimes get a lot of variation amongst one clutch of biddies. Because our birds are uncaged all day and have a roughly three acre range, one of our tactics for actually finding any eggs at all takes advantage of this habit. We set up several high, dry, and hay-filled spaces for the ladies to nest in. The dog crates Starboard is using are one, and there are a few rusty old parrot cages, courtesy of my parrot-crazed sister, which we've set up in quiet corners with a roof and maybe a burlap sack for privacy, and a temptingly thick bed of hay.
It helps if the ladies never see you take the eggs: only a few seem willing to knowingly accept the food-for-eggs bargain. Fiddler, a pretty little Ameraucana and one of the most affectionate chickens we've had, was one. Given the chance, she'd come inside and lay her lovely sage-green egg on my pillow.
And so at last, the long barren winter is over and the spring egg laying season is upon us! I can't wait to see Ginger's eggs. If her mostly-likely mom, Audrey, is any indication, she'll be laying great big rosy brown 3x's. But now--if you'll excuse me--it's way past time for me to make a homegrown omelet. I think...broccoli, cherry tomato, and the Wainwright's excellent sharp cheddar.

Winter

Since the bees left, I haven't felt the urge to blog much about the goings on here in the forest. There have been some changes: of the chickens, one died of some kind of internal disorder, one of eating something he shouldn't, and four by fox. In order: Yang, Schooner, Mini-Roo, Ying, Dinghy, and Josie.

We are fortunate in that none of those perished were laying hens. In fact, the balance of the flock has shifted strongly towards young hens and we hope to get a lot of eggs this year.

Llirpa, the calico, had a malignant toe (suspected melanoma) removed in December. Amusingly, her temperament has improved enormously and today she accompanied me, Camille, and Magda out for a wander through the forest--the first time in her 14 years she has done so!
The forest is still sleeping, despite the intermittent warm days. There were no violets yet, only a few new sprigs of cleavers. Why is it called cleavers? this pic says it all:

Safely home from our voyage into the Cannibal Seas,arriving into perfect fall coolness and feeling renewed, educated, and braver. In our absence the Sanctuary has gone from withering late summer into clear, fragrant, luminous coolness. It's the best time of year, so bright, the leaves all around graduating into yellow, the sky exquisitely blue, the breeze delicious, the shadows dappled.
Traveling as we did in the most sanitized and shepherded way, stuffed with familiar foods and drunk on fruit-flavored slushies primed with cheap rum, hands held (literally) over any unsteady terrain, we were at no point in any danger. No risk of dehydration, disease, hunger, even of any particular strangeness or disorientation. It proved nearly impossible to even locate authentic local food, except once in Belize when we were fed a modest lunch of rice and beans with a sweet strip of plantain. That day we also found a man with a machete and a pile of green coconuts, who provided that truest and freshest drink, the water of a young coconut, which proved to be the most delicious, strengthening nutrition of the the whole week.
We made three trips ashore, all of them marvelous. In Cozumel, we visited a Maya site known as San Gervase. While you will find no towering pyramids there, it is nevertheless one of the most sacred of ruins. Women and girls made pilgrimage there, to celebrate their holy first menses, for cleansing and healing, to learn women's mysteries before wedding, to ask the Goddess X'chel for children, to give birth in the hospital there. There are the remains of a road, paved with white stones so that pilgrims traveling in the coolness of night, under the moon, could see their path; there are a trading post, a priest's house, a bath house where twenty eight maidens would celebrate their menarche, a tiny hospital for birthing. And there was another building, from which sprang a great, beautiful alamo tree. When I saw it all curiosity about the rest of the place vanished and I turned toward that small room, where the tree's great roots anchored, like a flower to the sun, my heart swelling inside me. When I looked over at Jordan he too was weeping, and smiling. We'd been unable to bring any fruit with us; we didn't even have any coin or flowers, tobacco or maize. We offered a bit of water at the tree's roots, and when my tears kept flowing I collected them on my fingers and gave that water to the stones. The Lady was there, and She saw us, and She regarded us with such great compassion, the pressure of Her attention almost too much to stand under. I could have stayed there, though if we'd tarried longer I might have lost the will stay off the ruins, and climbed into that room to snuggle down amongst the cool stones and gracious earth, with that tree standing over me like the Mother herself.
I lost my words, under that attention, and just wept. For my lost babies, the ones that didn't stay and the ones that never came. For all of us who have lost a baby, or never birth one. And the sunshine felt like her warm hand on me, on my brow and the bent nape of my neck. She knows, oh, She Knows.
After that, in the next few days, I began to feel odd cramps and twinges in my belly. And my juices began to flow again, which is a private thing, but a wonder. Not a period, no; but some moisture where none has been, some lusciousness and lust. That heavy grief lifted, and sweetness returning.

The next day we arrived at Isla Roatan, a beautiful island off the coast of Honduras. We took a bus out of the tourist village and across the island to a place called Anthony's Key, where we then boarded a boat for a short jaunt across an arm of the Caribbean to another group of small islands for our dolphin encounter. The sun was bright, warm but not hot, and the water the exquisite color of peridot, and our dolphin was friendly and good humored about meeting us. The 24 or so dolphins of the center there are barely contained in a kind of lagoon; in fact for some encounters they are released into the open ocean. They live in a natural family pod and produce one or two calves a year, and it's plain to see there is affection between them and their trainers. We had a gorgeous time getting to know one of these beautiful creatures, in such a lovely setting.

The last excursion was in Belize, a combined tour of the River Wallace and the Ruins of Altun Ha.
We liked everyone we met (except the diamond hawkers in the tourist village in Cozumel), but the people in Belize were most hospitable. We saw the most wildlife here: howler monkeys, several kinds of raptor, two species of iguana, a fox, a crocodile, some tiny bats, plenty of herons, storks, and other waterfowl and vultures as well as the plentiful local livestock--horses, sheep, goats, cows, ducks, and chickens. Of everyplace we went, we thought we'd most like to return to Belize.
It's good to be home.