Pace

This evening Sam and his father called round. (Sam was the eleven year old that came to learn how to care for chickens last week) They very kindly brought me two bottles of wine as a thank you and were filled with exciting stories of their newly bought hens!
After they had gone, I had the chance to watch the field population settle in for the night. The pace of dusk is gentle and plodding, especially when it is compared to the complex excitement of dawn.
Boris and Gloria, already comfortable in their hut can be heard chattering gently to themselves, at the same time, the runner ducks slowly gel into a tight flock by the fence border, waiting almost patiently to be directed into their duck house.
The senior hens have already found their way to the choice perches inside the 7 hen houses, and the lower ranking girls and cockerels potter quietly around the coops, scratching for the missed pieces of corn, As the light fades ever so slightly, they too in groups of two and threes disappear slowly into the small doorways. Pirrie and Roger, the tiny and vital bantams, dart around and spar with each other like schoolboys, and remain in constant motion until the light all but dies.
In the farthest run the Buff cockerels Poppy and Clover stay out the longest, they march up and down , eager eyes focused on the field borders looking out for threats and rabbits, their golden colours still clearly visible in the fading light, they only retire when strongly "encouraged" to do so.
Occasionally the pigs can be heard snorting and bickering as they make their straw beds and it is funny that they both sleep with their heads propped up inside the old nesting boxes on the side of their hut.
From the cottage bedroon window I can just make out the ghostly face of Meg and the shadow that is Albert, both watching what I am doing with interest and I smile to myself
Funny what you notice when you have the time