This morning, it was snowing lightly up here in the holler. The ground was wet, but not frozen, so there was not much chance of it sticking. Still, I started wondering what the reaction would be from the chicks that had hatched since the last time snow was on the ground. Everything is probably still a brand new experience to them, so they might not think about it at all.
I can remember snows past, where we woke up to a thick white blanket on the ground. The birds seemed like they were not at all amused about this turn of events. It didn't stop them from wandering out and about, but I'm sure it changed their daily routines. It also makes them way more visible to airborne predator, which is something we found out the hard way.
We have four hens who sleep in a tree, and refuse to go into the nice, secure, weatherproof coop, no matter how nasty it gets outside. Many a morning, they have come down completely covered in frost, to follow the man (me) with the bucket of scratch out to the yard where the rest of the chickens congregate when I let them out of the coop. There are nights when the wind is blowing so hard that I think surely it will knock them out of the tree, only to find them securely fastened in the morning. We never have figured out why they prefer the tree to the coop.
Anyway, this morning when I started pondering once again what chickens think about, I remembered the full solar eclipse of a few years ago. Where we live, we had the full total eclipse visible from our yard. We had a couple of guests. One of our daughter's roommates from grad school and a friend had asked about camping on our property so they could view the eclipse. We told them we could do better than that, and they could stay in the house, shower, use the kitchen, and the pool. When the eclipse started happening, we set chairs out in the front yard and got comfortable. As it progressed, and the world seemed to go still and quiet, our dog came out and stood near us. Then, all of the chickens came out and stood around us, stock still and silent. They remained that way, seemingly transfixed, until the eclipse was over, and then they went back about their business. It was one of the strangest things I've ever witnessed. I still don't know what they were thinking.
Of course, a chicken's brain is as big as an acorn at best, so they might not be thinking at all. They might be merely reacting. Maybe I'm doing all the thinking.
And probably too much of it, at that.
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