Keeping chickens was pleasant enough ten months of the year. But there were days when the accumulation of snow and ice was a fly in the ointment. Actually a fly would have been a welcome treat to my hens.

 

In those days I checked the weather app on my phone pretty often. When the air hovered around freezing I had extra work hauling water, and plugging in heated bowls. Then when it warmed up a trice I could go back to just scooping layer crumble and chick starter.

 

I recall a week that was especially hard, but fortunately my phone predicts the future. Fifteen days were spelled out as to precipitation and temperature, at least so far as a host of scientists can conjure. One time 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, inhospitable 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 month, and even the next century. I can almost glimpse the illuminated icons of His Eternity Device, with tiny suns and numbers that reach into the seventies.