Dawn creeps quietly through the slats of the coop, cool air curling past my feathers. The world holds its breath. In the hush, I stand over two warm, caramel-colored eggs, their shells glowing softly beneath me, alive with promise. A rush of purpose stirs my body, deep as bone, compelling me to shelter these treasures. I lower myself, wings spread and mind sharp with instincts older than sunrise, shaping the straw and down beneath me into a fortress nothing can breach.
Hours and light trickle in. My eggs fit perfectly against my breast, warmed by the steady drum of my heartbeat. Here in my corner, the scent of straw and my own dust settles around us, a constant comfort. For the long wait ahead, I am a sentinel: alert, keen, wary.
Every morning, footsteps disturb the quiet: steady, deliberate. Sun spits through cracks as The Hand reaches with slow, practiced movements. My feathers rise: a warning. My beak snaps forward, and I bristle, fierce and certain, defending what is mine from this giant, careful invader. The Hand lingers, then withdraws, replaced with the sound of a door shutting and the world shrinking small again.
After that, I steal only quick moments away for food or water, kindly set close by The Hand: useful, but never to be trusted fully. Each day brings new weight: I turn my eggs, settle them, keep them close. Beneath my attention, they each pulse with silent potential. Sometimes, I croon low, promising presence and protection, sound meant only for ears tucked inside a shell.
One shifting dawn, a tap splits the silence. I freeze, every quill on alert. I see the crack, and the chick within, fighting, peeping, flailing toward the world. There is struggle, breathless and raw, until she falls into my waiting wing. Damp and trembling, she presses against my heat, glittery-eyed, alive.
Beside us, the second egg stills with each passing hour. I nudge it, rearrange straw, listen for any sound. There is only cooling shell and the ache of absence: a loss with no cry or answer. My body hovers over both: one soft and humming, one silent and heavy.
Still, duty binds me. My chick stirs, cheeps, burrows close. Her hunger for life draws me back. She tumbles over straw while I guide her away from danger, teach her how to squat low under a crow’s chasing shadow, how to crunch beetle shell between her new, clumsy beak. All my motions shape her world. Other hens watch, uncertain, until my sharp glare sends them back; she is mine to guard.
The Hand grows less bold now, waiting in the doorway, silent. I watch, half-fluffed and ready, each muscle curled between challenge and acceptance. The door remains, the boundary clear, and my chick finds courage in the shade of my wing.
Dusk returns the coop to hush. I settle with my chick nestled close, her warmth answering mine. The world outside might bellow and swirl, but here, I know the weight and shape of safety. Shadows lengthen, the air cools, and we breathe in the straw-sweet darkness.
Feathers fill out where down once was, and my little one’s stride grows sure. She rises on stronger legs: stumbles, rights herself, tries again. Our small world is edged with gold, and a hundred mornings stretch ahead. Each night, I tuck her in close, fierce and gentle, letting the dark settle over us like a promise. Tomorrow, we’ll wake to the coop’s hush and sunlit straw. For now: my body’s warmth, my careful watch, and the quiet beat that says: here, you are safe.
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Practical Homesteading 
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