Beach's little quail dusted in a bath of dirt. Their first time touching realness. They sheltered under a dried tree and peeped about their new home the fully fenced nursery coop. And this morning all but one were missing and assumed dead. Little feathers tiny enough to stuff a dollhouse mattress and drops of blood left behind. The survivor was the unlikeliest of all of them, the smallest of small, the chick thought to be Peep.
And as farm life goes death is a complex, reoccurring lesson. Sadly, the suspect is one of our own birds, Herk, the turkey, a true 'Deadman walking'. There is evidence against her. Perhaps she needed a crime to go with her death sentence. Perhaps big birds just eat little birds... trust me they do. Birds like people tend to be mean and hungry, often both.
I can admit for me there has been a slow slide of disillusion, not with farm life but in humanity, a narrowing of my underlying trust in goodness over coming badness; Beach in her youth and strength is undaunted. And she will try again, and again, and no doubt again...
Dust to dust.
oh...Poor lil Beach. Poor lil quails. It is hard to continue to care. to trust. good thing we have new life to remind us when we are too tired or jaded.
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