The Chicken Zone

Submitted for your approval: a quiet patch of Pacific Northwest earth, where the sky has opened up and the rain falls in silver sheets. Beneath a sturdy cedar-shingled roof, safe inside their covered run, a small flock of hens huddles together like feathered philosophers contemplating the storm.The world outside is a gray blur of wind-whipped maple leaves and puddles deep enough to drown a careless boot. Yet here, under the sanctuary of wire and wood, the chickens reign supreme. One buff Orpington tilts her golden head, watching droplets drum against the clear corrugated panels overhead as if decoding a message from the clouds themselves. A speckled Sussex scratches at the dry shavings, unconcerned. A silky bantam fluffs her pom-pom feathers and settles into a nest box like it’s a five-star coop suite.No one struts into the downpour. No one dreams of it. They have everything they need: shelter, snacks, and the smug satisfaction of being smarter than the weather.Out there, the rain keeps falling, relentless, indifferent. In here, the flock is warm, dry, and utterly, gloriously content to let the storm rage on without them.They say curiosity killed the cat. Tonight, satisfaction saved the chicken.You’ve just crossed into a dry corner of the barnyard, where the wise stay in and the wet stay out.This is the coop of the unknown.
This is The Chicken Zone… now with 100% chance of staying dry.