What I am about to confess I am not completely at ease with. You may not be either. 

There are some things that are hard to give away. A single shoe. A broken plate. A nasty rooster. 

While it is possible, though not bulletproof, to pick the gender of your chicks when you buy them in the spring, when they hatch there are no guarantees at all. So of the seven that were once small enough to scrunch inside of eggshells last June, two turned out to be roos. Not bad as odds go. But lately the one named Schroeder has been getting testy. The ruling roo, Nessa, has done his best to keep the upstart in check, but some of the gentler black Silkies are showing signs of fear. They hide.  

So I did something that falls in the gray area. I left Schroeder in an unsecure pen last night. Alone. The rest of the flock were nestled in the straw upstairs in a coop encased in hardware cloth. The local foxes and eagles gave up long ago trying to bust in. But the pen called Mossflower is only held closed by bungee cords. I expected to find a few stray feathers when I went down this morning. 

But there he was. Bloody, and subdued, but alive. 

The food dishes and waterers were all knocked over, and the bungee cord was bitten clear through. But Schroeder fought something, and won. I am impressed. 

Meanwhile another sweet hen named Boq is broody. Just for the heck of it. She has no eggs, fertile or otherwise, but every morning when the others go downstairs for breakfast she lingers behind, sitting faithfully. Just in case eggs appeared in the night. 

Another chicken keeper across town has a clutch of fertile eggs in an incubator. She did her research and felt slightly overwhelmed at the regime of precise temperature and humidity, turning multiple times and weighing them. Really? A two pound hen with a brain the size of a peanut and no training pulls this off? So I offered the services of Boq. Broody hen plus eggs could equal new chicks. 

Raising chickens has brought me up close and personal to the cycle of life. It is a gritty business, and I have lost my share of loved pets. I have also had an abundance of pleasure in holding a trusting and supremely soft sentient being in my hands. 

Life and death are deeply embedded in the weeks around Christmas. The newborn who is the draw for hundreds of visitors at the tableaux service is fresh from the womb. The deaths of children throughout Bethlehem are the tragic aftermath of an insanely jealous dictator. 

There are forces to be fought as the days grow darker. Depression. Loneliness. Greed. Injustice. I hope that I can be at least as fierce as a rooster in facing them.

Come to think of it I had a cousin who wanted broken plates. She made mosaics with them.