Spring teased the Northeast with her balmy breezes yesterday. We celebrated the rush of warm air by revamping the chicken coop. An entire bale of hay was scattered in the run and even around the outside, just to cover up the muck created from rapidly melting snow.
While I slaved on all fours, hand-spreading the hay and wading through muddy puddles that surrounded the coop, I looked over to see my ever-cheerful daughter playing with her "girls." Carefree and giggling, she picked up each hen and tossed it into the sky, ever so gently, just to give the hens a little exercise.
"You see," Brie observed, "Beatrice is out of shape. She needs to flex those wings."
One by one, the hens were sent flying, and they would flutter from one spot to the next, pecking delightedly at the blades of grass emerging from previously snow-covered ground.
When she tired of this game, Brie piled the chickens up on the patio table, on what's left of a withering snow mound, to pose for the camera.
The hens seemed to be enjoying themselves immensely.
I love that Brie can make an otherwise boring chore, joyful. Playtime is for the birds, at least in our home.
Say, "Cheeeeeese," oops, I mean, "Chickens!"