A Thursday in June

We got back from our trip to Montana on Saturday.
Montana.
Big Sky country (also known as God's country).
The place you can order iced tea without the UN-sweetened descriptor.
The home of (some of) my ancestors.
The land my family would travel to every summer of my childhood- where memories are thick.

I had talked about Montana enough that, last spring, my youngest asked if we could go there. When I told her it was too expensive to go and that we would have to wait awhile until we had saved some money, she cried. I didn't know then that a year later we would all be there again- this time to bury my dad's ashes. Bittersweet provision.

There's too much to tell about the trip, except to say that it was wonderful. Time was spent with extended family; the kids were exposed to new and beautiful places and got along with each other far better than I expected. I am debating if magical is too strong a word.

Back home in the heat and humidity, I found my tomatoes and chicks were three times the size as  when I left and the weeds ten times larger. I am exaggerating. But only a little. I've spent the last several days making my way through laundry and weeds, trying to reclaim some order.

This morning, I weeded some of the front flower bed, trying to finish up what I suckered the kids into starting for me. Finally, the sun pushed away too much shade, so I wandered out to check on the chickens. I had forgotten to close the gate last night, so hoped I wouldn't find any carnage. [That is unless it was the ugly, white, little rooster I've been needing to dispose of.] The little ones I knew would be alright, as I had locked them in the coop to give them a chance to eat their crumble without harassment from the older birds.

There were no clumps of feather in the chicken run, so I opened up the coop to check on the little ones. Next to the small, chicken door, a Cuckoo Maran appeared to be sleeping, eyes closed and breathing regularly. I clapped my hands to startle it awake, but it didn't flinch. "Great," I thought. "Something is wrong with it." I had three fourths of a mind to walk away and started to do so, but apparently, my new thing is trying to save small animals in distress. I scooped it up and headed to the house.

Cuckoo Marans (and Barred Rocks) have lovely feathers. I cradled the bird in my hand, marveling at its softness. the poor bird's head bobbed and drooped as I walked. I had almost made it to the stable to grabbed the bag of Quik Chik electrolytes when, down the front of my shirt and shorts, the bird released its bowels- and in that same moment, its life.

And so it goes.