The Twisp chickens were all killed on Tuesday night, including the four new babies. We are heartbroken. The hens were so much more than "just chickens."
They were hand-raised pets, beautiful, healthy and productive. The oldest one in the flock, Leah, had been around since the start of the pandemic. And a considerable investment of time, money and work went into keeping them.
After a raccoon attack a few weeks ago, Tom secured the hen house with automatic door timer to keep predators out at night. But some animal still got in with the door closed, most likely a weasel that slipped through a gap. The poor hens were trapped and slaughtered, one by one. Amanda made the grisly discovery in the morning.
She in particular loved caring for them and I'll sure miss watching those sweet birds. They yard will be quiet and empty. They were the dearest hens, constantly "bocking" to each other in that soothing way, taking dirt baths, looking for worms, or doing something funny, like rushing over for vegetable scraps when you opened the back door. And the final blow, they laid delicious eggs daily in their snug little house, even through the bitterest of winters. Farewell.
When I was 13, we saw a weasel attack a chicken on Grammy's farm in broad daylight, right under our noses. It made a lasting impression, because about 10 years later I actually wrote a poem about it, which I found yesterday in an old spiral notebook.
Of course, a weasel is just being a weasel, but seeing something beautiful and helpless suddenly snatched away certainly feels evil.
Here it is:
Weasel-- Pennsylvania, 1963
You darted quite casually
through the hysteria
that muggy farm afternoon,
our favorite Bantam's neck
held smoothly in your teeth.
A sinuous brown motion, no more.
The abrupt daylight attack
Mother's broom swinging wildly
our shepherd's mad pursuit
our frenzied clumsiness
no match, no match
for your graceful evil.
Written, 1973
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