Keeping birds is pleasant enough ten months of the year. But there are days when the accumulation of snow and ice is a fly in the ointment. Actually a fly would be a welcome treat to my hens.

I check the weather app on my phone pretty often. When the air hovers around freezing I have extra work hauling water, and plugging in heated bowls. Then when it warms up a trice I can go back to just scooping layer crumble and chick starter.

The last week has been hard, but fortunately my phone predicts the future. Fifteen days are spelled out as to precipitation and temperature, at least so far as a host of scientists can conjure. When snowy day followed snowy day I spoke to the flocks. 

"Only a little longer, girls. Thursday it will warm up and by next week we will see bare ground again. I promise."

I am unclear of whether they believed me, or held little grudges like gravel in their crops. No scientific studies have been funded regarding the memory banks of birds, unless you count the incredible migratory patterns of albatrosses documented by ornithologists or the patriotism of certain Aracaunas. But do Barred Rocks remember grass? Pine for it? Dream about worms? Feel doomed to white, unwalkable pens forever? Do they accept what is, and reserve their mental energy for fluffing up feathers to stay warm?  

In my morning prayers I hold people whose lives are feeling cold. Medical issues, job losses, fractious family dynamics all sap us of our strength. It can drone on like February in Minnesota. It is tempting to believe that we will never be joyful again. 

But there is Someone whose purview stretches into next week, and even next decade. I can almost glimpse the illuminated icons of His Eternity Device, with tiny suns and numbers that reach into the seventies.