I had to rush out and check the chickens' collective pulse just now. They were were lying in a heap, perfectly still except for the occasional stretching of a wing. From time to time one looked like she would get up, but then flomped over again. Very disconcerting. It's a darn good thing I work from home so I can be on Chicken High Alert in the middle of the day. People think I might go back to work once the kids are in school for real, but obviously, this chicken thing is an issue. Do you hear me, Audrey? I am bringing the chickens to work with me.
So. I approached the lump of chickens and no one bothered to look up. On closer inspection, they were sort of writhing. In the dirt. Which looks as dirty as it sounds.
They had made a big hole for themselves and were lying in a patch of sun. It turns out they were having a dirt bath and doing a bit of sunbathing. I think that is the chicken equivalent of a deep tissue massage followed by a seaweed wrap. They looked vaguely euphoric.
It is surprisingly easy to recognize chicken euphoria.
Although I never noticed any symptoms of SAD, the flock is clearly glad it's spring. They are literally wallowing in spring. They are living in my old vegetable garden, so their lives will just keep getting better as last year's plants start to reappear. Those plants have no idea what's about to hit them (beaks, mostly).
It is good to be a chicken in the spring. Not particularly elegant, but good nonetheless. They are relaxed, comfortable, unperturbed and spectacularly filthy.
Maybe I am a spring chicken after all.