In days of grumpiness, or low hanging clouds that keep the dank air right on the bones, it is easy to feel glum, like Spring will not come.
People like to say, "Spring will come..." but they know as little as you or I.
But when I see a chicken on one of these glum days, my spirits lift. One can not be but amused at their social chatter, their extensive vocabulary, their lovely fluffy undergarments and their hops that can also turn into raptor like rushes to spilled cat food.
While this joy might be temporary, one only has to go out the next day and observe the chickens again.
I do believe Spring will come, and then chicken observing becomes downright delirious.
