The flock runs a tight ship and a loose constitution. They scratch, confer, and produce the eggs we sell in modest dozens — brown, cream, and occasionally a color that makes a child gasp. We keep them in a coop that is closed at dusk because the world still contains raccoons with a work ethic. Collecting eggs is the chore kids fight over. We let them.
Meet them
Names, birthdays, and the stories we are still writing.
Each chicken has a page of their own — a portrait, a birthday when we know it, a short about, and room for the ridiculous things they do. Tap a name.
