The Flock Chronicles

Two years ago today, I got divorced. April 1st. No, I didn’t choose the date. That was simply the day I was assigned to end a 24-year marriage. And yes, I am fully aware of the irony. I’ve had two years to sit with it. It was cold that day. Not just “a little chilly,” but the kind of cold that settles into your bones and makes everything feel heavier than it already is. It rained the entire time—steady, gray, unrelenting. And today, two years later, it is the same. Same cold.

There was a time when there was only one house. The Red House It stood red against the yard, trimmed in black, solid and unapologetic. Larger than necessary. Older. Strong in its lines. It held everyone then — the bold, the careful, the relentless, the observant. It worked. Until the air inside it began to feel tight. Not fractured. Not hostile. Dense. Feathers pressed closer along the roost at dusk. Corrections came quicker. A shoulder shift meant something. A pause at the f

Last week, a smaller coop and run arrived on the farm. Not as large as the White House. Not as large as the Red House. Finished on the outside. Still empty inside. The floor is waiting for sand. Water lines are measured but not yet installed. The feeder will go in once placement is finalized. By spring, it will be fully operational. In practical terms, it is being prepared for the brooder council. When they feather out — no longer fragile, but still too small and too young to

The night settles over Cedar Paddock like a slow exhale. Crickets hum in the grass, a few leaves drift from the oaks, and the air still holds the last warmth of autumn. From the red house comes only the faint rustle of feathers as the hens shift on the roost. Travis gives one soft cluck, then stills. But across the way, the White House glows faintly under its yard light. Ricky hasn’t slept. All through the dark hours, his shadow moves back and forth, wings catching flashes of

The paddock glows in late autumn warmth — sunlight soft as honey, the grass brittle beneath wandering feet. The hens in the red house scratch lazily through sand and straw, their days steady and sure under Travis’s quiet watch. But beyond their world, across fences and distance, another sound breaks the calm. Ricky. Ricky His crow rips through the air again and again, echoing over the hills like a storm that refuses to move on. The hens can’t see him — the White House stands

Autumn in the woods of Cedar Paddock The paddock glows under the slow burn of fall. Sunlight filters through the oaks and maples, scattering gold across the runs. The air is warm still — sweet with dry grass and dust — but the leaves whisper of change. In the red house, Travis limps from one end of the covered run to the other. His stride is uneven, but his purpose is not. Each step is deliberate, each crow measured — not the booming call of conquest, but the low, resonant so

Ricky demanding to be the Alpha The morning after the battle, the paddock felt hollow. Feathers still clung to the grass like fallen banners. The hens moved quietly, unsure which silence to honor — the silence of fear, or the silence of relief. Ricky was gone.Taken from the kingdom he had tried to claim, he now brooded in another coop beyond the red house, his crow echoing faintly across the pasture like a ghost of his own ambition. The walls that held him were not just wire

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