Like Martins from Heaven

Yesterday was a bit of a rough day. Nothing apocalyptic, just farm life at its most stark. One of my hens, the best that I can figure, had a heart attack. Dead hen. Being the stout-hearted farm girl I am, after I got over my nausea at the limp, fluffy body, I decided that I had to retrieve her for burial. The literally pea sized brain of Phineas the Rooster apparently concluded that I had caused Phern the Hen's death because he poofed out his fringe feathers like a lion's mane and attacked me when I went into the yard. I had to kick him three times and hit him twice with a 2X4 before he decided that I was, in fact, bigger than he. I wish I was exaggerating. Like I said, pea brain.

The butchering process was not without it's fascination. Chopping off a chicken head--yucky. Plucking--also yucky. You have to get the bird wet in hot water to get the feather sockets to relax, and then your hands are caked with wet feathers. Removing crop, neck, and feet--not so bad because the chicken then looks a lot like the chicken you're used to from the store. Removing the viscera--eeeeeyew! At least there ought to be some bragging rights involved. I mean, I did literally eviscerate something. Worst of all, a dead, wet chicken smells.... well, it smells exactly like a dead, wet chicken. I did it, though. Being the nasty educatrix that I am, I made my children help.

So we're going to eat her. Still, I was sad. She was the prettiest of the hens, with her hint of green on the back of her neck. She was the first one I named. And now we're down to a flock of only five. Like I said, nothing apocalyptic. Just farm life. Still, I'm a bird chic (pun intended) and I didn't like to see her looking so small and inert. All I had to go back to was mowing the lawn--not an activity guaranteed to cheer me. So I was a little down in the mouth, or long in the face, or chapped in the... never mind... for the rest of the day. Until about 6:00 p.m.

What happened at 6:00 p.m., you ask? Well, you didn't actually ask, but I'm going to tell you, so zip it.
First, my dear husband came home and gave me a hug. That is a thing never to be overlooked. Then we sat down on the porch swing, which did not rip free from the porch ceiling under our combined weight, which is also nice. As we looked out over the lawn to the pond in the near distance, first the hummingbird's began to visit. Their buzz and chitter, their iridescence, and their aerial battles are always a mood booster. Still, it was nothing we hadn't seen before.

What happened next, we hadn't seen before. If you read the last entry, you know our dilapidated martin house committed sudoku over the winter during a windy storm. I had concluded that it was no big deal, as it seemed to be mainly occupied by blue birds and tree swallows. I was pretty sure we didn't have any actual purple martins. I was wrong! As we sat on the swing, two martins, a male and female, came swooping right in under the porch roof. The searched the corners, hovering. The landed on the ledge above our back door, took off again, landed on the garage gutter, rested a while. They kept up their swooping, chirping, hovering display for an hour. Several times, they flew within five feet of where we sat. It was as though they were saying, "Hey, people friends. Where's the fence row house?" They were so beautiful, so acrobatic, so confiding that it brought tears to my eyes. Never have I been so close to any bird but the phoebes who nest on our track lights every year. (Phoebes are particularly human-adapted birds.) I finally went for my camera, certain it would be too late, but still the martins came.

As I sat trying to get pictures of the visiting martins, we watched the other birds that I love so much. The goldfinch on the feeder, the embattled hummingbirds. The newly housed tree swallows swooping. Out over the field, the amazingly graceful Great Blue Heron came in for a landing. At the same time, Joe and I exclaimed, "She's got something in her mouth!" She was carrying a long reed or grass--nesting material!

All my cares are everyday cares--things that in the long run are not truly very important. Where is the money for this or that going to come from? What's wrong with this or that animal? How will I lose these pounds? Why are those plants not growing? Did I leave anything in that chicken that wasn't supposed to be there? How am I doing as a mother? But as I watched that symphony of birds, I couldn't help feeling that God, in His infinite knowledge of His each and every child had provided this hour of winged grace to tell us, "I've got you. I've got them and I've got you. Be at peace."