The chickens were out of sorts all day, confined to the barn by endless showers. Strut tried to mount everyone, but Oprah, bigger than him, nearly knocked him on his butt. Strut does a great job of keeping the hens right by the barn. Far from foxes, always close to shelter, resting under trees out of sight of circling hawks. There was much clucking and grumbling on the roost. I imagine Fran was warning everyone to take foxes seriously.

Shirley may have raved about the leftover cheese tortellini’s offered the chickens this afternoon. Oprah was recovering from her nose-to-nose encounter with Frieda (we didn’t know she was in the yard when we let the dogs out). She started to run, then froze, and Frieda looked at her, and then barked at a passing truck. Oprah has an angel watching over her.

Fran is fading a bit, thinning, off alone a lot. I think her time is near. But every night, at 5:30, they are side by side, checking out the view, settling, settling, reminding me to do the same.