John finished the raised bed/ chicken coop. It is amazing. The plants on top create a roof for the flock underneath. The entire structure is wrapped in 3/4 inch hardware cloth, and will keep out everything but earthworms. But that's ok. The chickens like those. 

The current residents include two black Silkie mamas named Boq and Elpheba, who are supremely attentive to their eight chicks, five black and three white, who are named after the Peanuts characters. A grey chick called Oliver is ten weeks old, the brown hen is Oz and the reigning rooster is a white splash named Nessa.  They came to us when the twins went to Wicked on Broadway, which influenced the noms de plume.

One of the features of the coop is that it is fox proof both on top and on the bottom. This means I do not have to lock them up in the evening or unlock them at sunrise. Hence on the second morning they came downstairs just as the neighborhood fox was doing her rounds. While the smell and clucks of chickens are alluring to predators the sight of them is even more so. The fox went nuts. So did the chickens.  

By the time I heard the ruckus and came outside the fox was high tailing it, literally, through the trees. The chickens were all perched as far up in their cages as possible, except Nessa. He was ferocious. At first glance I was grieved to believe that the chicks were dead, though I could not find any evidence of a breach in the wire. It turns out they were all under strict instructions by their mothers to hide under their bellies and keep silent. Which they did. Thankfully everyone was alive.

Nessa, however, had a bloodied face. The red added to the conviction of his black eyes to protect his girls. If he had stayed in the center of the pen the fox would have no chance of hurting him. But he had valiantly faced the vixen ten times his size through the screen, and been slashed by however much of her teeth she could pierce the holes with. 

For most of an hour, all birds sat frozen and frightened in their spots. Not Nessa. He scanned the perimeter in search of any danger to his flock. Finally, he gave the word that all was safe, and breakfast was served. Chicks came out of hiding, hens resumed preening and pecking, and Nessa crowed to his own victory. 

I find the instinct to protect astonishing. Such bravery against a face full of canines comes surging out of a heart the size of a peach pit. Human males seem wired to protect their own as well. When we were camping in Yosemite and heard a bear whooping through the grounds, I stayed huddled in my sleeping bag while John ventured out into the darkness to chase it away. Whenever we are driving and the car has a snafu it is he who pumps up the jack, or looks under the hood. When our power goes out and I am meekly lighting candles, John braves the stormy weather to investigate. 

I am grateful.