Finished the aviary on the studio and the bantams put themselves to bed in it at twilight now. The flock runs on an org chart: Blu, the old man, holds the roost there. His son Jonathan runs welcome wagon ops out of my tiny house with his sister, bringing new birds into the fold.
The two-territory split is a peace treaty. Last month Jonathan took his father’s eye in a fight — I was there, split them up bare-handed, and held Blu to my chest with his eye pressed shut until his heart and breath came back. A month later the old man is back running the roost on light and dark in that eye and not much else. He has some bruising around his eye now that I’m hoping isn’t indicative of something systemic, but we will have to wait and see.
Chickens, man. Don’t count ’em.