our sweetest and most fragile hen, clove, is molting. so are all of her sisters, but clove is taking it the hardest and looks the scruffiest. she’s listless and moving slowly. early on, she was the only chick who got pasty butt, whose life my husband saved by cupping her in big man hands, and gently wiping her bony, 5-day-old rear end with warm water. she is the hen who looked egg bound this winter, and who spent the holidays inside with us next to the fire, in the dog kennel, surrounded by bowls of steaming water to loosen her up. now she’s back in that still, staring-ahead place where animals go when they’re sick. but she’s such a resigned and unassuming personality, that she doesn’t give off any sense of grievance. she just shakes her head a lot, and drifts off by herself when things get hard, and comes home first to the roost at night, accepting her lot with a matter-of-fact animal grace. i wish i could sit with her all day, and feed her double handfuls of sweet, young clover.

white clover in may

vadnais lake, saint paul, minnesota