Free Ranging Days: A Quiet Morning on the Homestead

She’s a good hen, loves her garden, and keeps her coop as clean as a sunlit kitchen. She’s a good girl, crazy ’bout sunshine, and loves her flock almost as much as the whip-poor-will mornings that drift along our fence lines. Out in Blanchard, the day stretches long and green—green grass as far as they can see, a soft reminder that this life is simple and good. I stand with my tools and a mug of something warm, listening to the soft clucks and the distant hum of bees in the herb bed. The chickens scratch and peck, the sun climbs higher, and I catch that familiar feeling: this is slow, this is enough, this is home.

We move through the day like a slow, cheerful parade—gathering eggs, checking the coop, and tending the garden beds with bare ankles dusty from dirt-under-fingernail work. There’s something honest about a routine that honors the land and the birds who share it. When the hens puff up and strut in their yard, it’s a small celebration of a life built on simple chores, good grains, and a little bit of sunshine. Tonight, I’ll jot down the quiet moments—the soft morning light spilling over the roost, the squeak of the gate, the way the day settles into a gentle, grateful rhythm.

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