One of my concerns for the chickens in my care is keeping a roof over their heads. Rain is one reason. Noon day sun is another. They cannot do this for themselves, so it is up to me. 

When the girls free range, they often head to the bushes. It is an oasis of shade, and loose dirt in which to bury themselves. Apparently kicking up soil over their backs deters mites. Or something like that. On the occasion that they are eating grass in the yard, one squawk from the reigning rooster about a circling predator sends them scrambling for cover. No back talk. Just do what he says. 

I read a list of ten bullet points intending to convince you that you are among the lucky ones. The first one is a roof over your head. On that scale, my flocks fare better than a shockingly large portion of the planet. Another is access to clean water. Again my hens score. Though I must admit their habit of scratching dirties the dishes faster than I can refill them. 

Parenting entails protecting what is in our care, and here I mean the kind with skin not feathers. Cross beams, yes, but also the timber of another kind. 

I had a conversation with my twins about boys. They are sliding from the realm of boys-are-annoying to hmm-they-are-interesting-too. We chatted about friendships that keep everyone safe and others that leave scars. It is my tender prayer that each exchange of ideals will shelter them as they venture farther from my arm's reach, as inevitably they must.