Our chickens roam free, foraging for bugs, worms, and other nasties hidden under leaves and rotten logs. They were allowed this freedom their first morning at their new abode, and soon thereafter, vanished. We wrangled up all but three, made a makeshift pen for those who remained, and then went to church, leaving the missing to battle the wild. During the sermon, I focused my wayward attention on poetry:
Later that evening we counted all eight barred-rock and dominique, and one cock in the coop.