I opened the chicken coop door this morning, as I always do, expecting the usual feathery stampede toward freedom. Normally, it’s a scene right out of a Western movie—150 chickens all trying to funnel through an 18-inch wide opening that’s maybe 8 inches high. You’d think that after years of this, they’d have figured out the physics of it all, but no. It’s a miracle of poultry determination, physics-defying chaos, and questionable decision-making on everyone’s part.
But this morning... oh, this morning was different.
The first brave souls headed for the door like it was the Oklahoma Land Rush—flapping, squawking, and aiming for open space like there was no snow in sight. They were charging toward freedom, their little chicken hearts racing with the hope of a day full of dirt baths, scratching, and finding that one perfect worm. It was all going according to plan... until they hit it. Snow. A vast, unforgiving blanket of cold, white betrayal, covering their precious dirt.
Suddenly, it was like someone slammed on the brakes. Beaks down, wings flared, feet locked in mid-motion. And then came the collective realization: the ground that had once been so welcoming, so familiar, was now covered in snow. The chickens came to a complete and utter halt. They stared at it with the kind of disdain usually reserved for soggy bread. And just like that, the land of opportunity—so close, yet so cold—became their greatest foe.
Unfortunately, the 145 chickens still packed behind them did not get the memo. Oh no. The ones at the back, who hadn’t even seen the snow yet, were still fully committed to their mission of freedom. So, what followed wasn’t a gentle retreat or a graceful understanding of the situation—it was more like a 150-car pileup on the feathered freeway. The ones at the front were stuck. Couldn’t go forward, couldn’t go back. The ones in the rear just kept pushing like, “Move it, lady! I’ve got scratching to do!” Total chaos. Squawking. Wing flapping. A whole lot of side-eye. It was like watching a badly choreographed flash mob where nobody knew the dance—or the reason they were dancing in the first place.
And here I was, standing there, wondering if I had somehow stepped into an alternate universe where chickens were both more stubborn and more dramatic than I had ever given them credit for. I half-expected someone to yell out, “I can’t breathe! Someone get me my agent!”
In the middle of all this, Henrietta the Bold—a hen known for being a bit of a daredevil—decided that she would break the chicken silence and try to confront the snow. She gingerly stepped out onto the snow, stretched a cautious foot, and then quickly retracted it like she’d just stepped on hot coals. The disgust in her expression was palpable. She tiptoed a little further, realized she hated it even more, then turned around and tried to head back into the coop. But of course, that just caused more problems. Now we had a full-blown two-way traffic jam at the door. The chickens behind Henrietta were still pushing forward, but now, the ones trying to get back inside were going in the opposite direction. Rising levels of chicken indignation ensued.
At this point, I felt like I was trapped inside a farm-themed version of Jumanji. Between the squawking, the wing-flapping, and the head bobbing, the chickens were absolutely losing their minds. Every now and then, I’d catch the eye of one of them, and I swear I could hear the unspoken thought: “You made this happen, didn’t you?”
I was starting to wonder if this was just going to be the new normal—an endless loop of chicken-induced chaos every time I opened the door. What if they were all permanently frozen in some state of feathered panic? Could chickens get frostbite on their dignity?
But then, just as I was about to give up and go back inside, hoping the chickens would work it out on their own (or figure out how to form a chicken-sized union to address their grievances), the unthinkable happened. A brave rooster—one of the older, wiser birds—decided to take a calculated leap into the snow. And what did he do? He landed, took one step, and immediately shook himself off like a wet dog, as if to say, “See? It’s fine! I’m still alive!”
He strutted about, his tail feathers swaying with the kind of confidence usually reserved for the lead role in a Broadway show. And, somehow, that one brave bird turned the tide. Slowly, but surely, the others followed suit, cautiously dipping one foot into the snow, then another, and finally, they scattered to their usual spots, scratching and clucking as if snow had never been their mortal enemy.
And that, folks, is how Black Monday dawned on the Davis farm.
Moral of the story? Snow is a conspiracy. Chickens are dramatic. And doors, no matter what size, are not meant for mass poultry evacuations. Oh, and chickens, as it turns out, will always find a way to turn even the most mundane farm task into a full-blown theatrical production. Welcome to the farm, where the drama never ends, and neither do the snowstorms.
And in case you were wondering… it was only an inch of snow. An inch. All that, for just one inch.
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