Cluckyard Chaos

I strut first, you follow—welcome to the grande finale of the Dirt Dance, featuring sprockets, fences, and a suspiciously calm white chicken.

Behind me, the gate plots its own rebellion; ahead, more grass. I’m just here for the sunlight and snacks.

In the quiet, sunbaked yard, four hens—the creamy dawn and the red-brown dusk—peck through the soil as if revealing answers buried by time. Each beak taps a tiny secret, each tail flick a heartbeat of the farm’s slow, steady rhythm. Boundaries of wood and earth hold their small world in patient amber light, where calm becomes a daily, feathered ritual.