Here in Kentucky the wind has been cutting and the snowflakes were practically enormous today. I found myself looking out toward the little chicken coop and feeling a bit sorry for my three hens — Gertrude, Hilda and Wanda. They’ve been cooped up more than usual because of the weather. The coop has a heater and they’re safe and warm, but even chickens seem to get cabin fever. I know I do.
When the weather pins me indoors, I often head for the kitchen and bake something that tastes like spring. It’s a small, silly ritual: when summer’s too hot I wish for autumn, and when winter is gray I daydream about blooming trees and warm breezes. Baking helps bridge the seasons a little, and it gives me something to do besides stare at the snow.
Today I took a quick walk to check on the girls. Gertrude was tucked into a corner by herself, ruffling her feathers and looking thoughtful. I like to joke that I understand chicken language — growing up on a farm, I spent a lot of time around them. Gertrude was clearly dreaming about spring: wandering the yard, scratching through the mulch beds, and snagging bugs from the grass. Those simple pleasures are what chickens live for, and I could almost see her planning each little scratch and peck.
I chatted with her for a minute, told her I understood exactly what she meant, and offered some cracked corn. She pecked happily and settled down again. There’s something comforting about small routines like that — a warm coop, a handful of feed, and the steady rhythm of caring for animals through the seasons.
Back inside at the kitchen table, my mind wandered to what I’ll do when spring finally arrives. I pictured the yard thawing, soil warming, and the mulch beds that always need a little attention after winter. I can see myself spreading fresh mulch, repairing the places where the hens have dug, and planting a few flowers that will attract butterflies. Those images — soft light, green shoots, and fluttering wings — are a balm in the middle of a cold spell.
I lingered over those thoughts, enjoying the small, hopeful images of bees and butterflies and the first brave flowers pushing through. Planning for spring helps pass the gray days: cleaning the coop, topping up feed, fixing fences, and deciding which plants to add to the garden. It’s both practical and pleasant — a blend of chores and anticipation.
For now, winter holds the yard in its quiet grip. But the heat lamp hums, the cracked corn is tucked away, and the hens are snug. I’ll keep dreaming of sun-warmed soil and the happy chaos of chickens roaming freely. Until then, I’ll bake, I’ll plan, and I’ll check on Gertrude, Hilda and Wanda as often as I can — because even in the cold, those small connections make the season easier to bear.
Still dreaming… don’t wake me just yet.