Frozen Chicken — Bok's Cocks

After a Christmas that felt more like Florida than Indiana, winter did eventually arrive. Temperatures dropped approximately 70 degrees and brought a bit of snow from time to time. When constructing our chicken coop, we purposefully did not put a light in it, expecting that our chickens would lay whatever eggs would be appropriate for the season and the weather. On a sunny day, we bring in, on average, seven eggs. On the third overcast day in a row when the temperatures have consistently stayed below 20, we bring in three eggs. Honestly, on those days, I don’t feel like doing much either. Egg production is down a bit, and we do suffer from bringing in the occasional cold egg, which we transfer directly to the egg bin in the refrigerator, simply to keep the egg from sweating due to the radical temperature change, which in turn, may disrupt the bloom on the egg and allow bacteria into the egg.

Additionally, we did not put a light in the coop so that our chickens would do another thing that God intended them to do in the winter: huddle together for warmth. It’s not a matter of chicken comfort; it’s a matter of chicken survival. Our property is entirely fueled and lit by electric power. The power has been rather consistent since we moved in, but our power lines are above ground, just below the branches of a line of rather large Sycamore trees. These trees keep their leaves very late into the autumn, but drop branches at every light breeze. Our power lines run along the property line, and the trees are firmly within the boundaries of our neighbor’s property. They all appear to be healthy, but they are large. They drop branches year round. A significant, localized power outage is a very real possibility. If we have raised our chickens to be dependent on a light bulb for warmth, and we lose power on a very cold day, we run the risk of also losing all of our chickens.

This brings me to the idiot chicken.

There’s always one in the crowd. The free thinker. The independent mover. The creative one. The only one who tries to escape time after time, in spite of having her wings clipped three times, (once very unevenly, which MUST affect her ability to navigate in air). Oh, Henrietta. What are we going to do with you?

It’s two degrees out. The sky is clear and it promises to be a bright, sunny day. As the sun slowly begins to float upwards in the winter sky, the first yellow rays fall on the chicken run. There, perched on the 5-foot tall run fence, as if debating whether to fly on over to freedom, her feathers covered in glittering frost, roosts Henrietta. Whilst the other seven hens huddle together inside the coop, where it is still cold enough that every cluck and squawk creates a tiny cloud as their breath hits the cold air, Henrietta remains committed to her perch on the run’s fence. She spends an hour up there, basking in the bright bath of sunlight until the run is invaded by wild birds who are desperate for something to eat that is not frozen solid (which the remaining hens seem to willingly share, as there are chickens and blackbirds both pecking at the chicken feeder at the same time).

Soaking up the morning sun, the only source of warmth on a frigid morning. Maybe she’s not such an idiot bird after all.

Web Mistress