There are just a few intimate acts that are on par with reaching, in the dark, beneath a broody hen’s body, into the damp heat of her defeathered breast, feeling for eggs that pulse with embroynic blood. My years of developing film and photographs in the darkroom served me well as I navigated by feel alone. Oregano gave me a few good pecks on the wrist, bless her defensive spirit, and Dahlia let loose with a series of low perturbed squawks as I mussed about beneath her.
I took Oregano’s sacrifical eggs from her and and placed them in an old cardboard box grabbed off the garage floor, stretching as I did through the sticky web of a mother spider guarding her egg sac.
And then I replaced the stolen neverbabies with twelve fresh eggs for Oregano and eleven for Dahlia, of all colors and shapes, with a prayer for the suspended lives within.
And the 21-day countdown begins toward life or no life. It all comes down to the proper application of heat and humidity. Amazing, every time.