Bailey the Chicken Girl

I remember watching her at age four, leading her toddler brother and their friends through the sharp, whipping marsh grass. She knew the safe spots to step and where your boots would plunge two feet down into the sludge mud. At age seven, the gaggles of girls played games and gossiped, while Bailey could be found scaling the tallest tree in proximity. By age twelve, I would witness her friends recording themselves dancing on their phones, only to find videos of Bailey recording the flowers she collected.

On the edge of fifteen, she has found her rhythm. Her place. She is up before the sun tending to her babies. She knows each of her (roughly 60) chicken and duck's names, personalities and tendencies. She collects eggs, fills waters, nurses wounds, feeds and cares for these birds. In the light of the moon, she trecks to the barn alone to count them all and make sure they are safely up for the night.

Bailey isn't compensated for this work. She understands that we struggle to finance this venture. She does it all with great maturity and understanding. The farm functions and survives because we keep it going. The life we crave comes only with the purpose we create. 💫🖤