The Flock Chronicles

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 sun still hangs hot over Cedar Paddock, the air thick with the smell of dust and dry leaves. It’s the kind of Missouri autumn that glows like summer but hums with change — and in the White House pen, that change has a name. Ricky. Rooberty has taken hold of him like wildfire. His feathers blaze with iridescent sheen, his comb burns crimson, and every crow rips through the air with wild conviction. He struts, he paces, he throws his weight against the wire just to hear it