Tonight I went for a short lap around the yard, and in less than five minutes this is what I saw:

“Pat Austin” rose still blooming like crazy

“Black Beauty” Elderberry also putting on a show

Persimmon planted last year, blooming and setting fruit

Cherries! Too high to pick from the ground—enjoyed by birds, not me.

“Celeste” fig, which I thought died of winter cold, is actually regrowing!

Peaches on the recently lopped peach tree

I closed up the bluebird box just yesterday, and since then Mr. Bluebird has been busy with Home Construction 2.0.

Inherited grapevine…a gigantic mess that I finally chopped to the ground this spring. I hope to train a new central vine from this sprout. I worked today to pull out, by hand, the poison ivy surrounding this vine. I await repercussions.

Unmowed hayfied reverting back to wild pasture. It’s so pretty like this—even full of berries and all—that I wonder why mow at all?

Inherited iris growing in the drainage ditch by the road.

And finally, two eggs a day appearing, as if by magic, from the guineas. I have it on good authority from egg-eating family members that they are delicious!

I checked the bluebird box today and found it empty. And thus began my detective work to figure out what got the babies. Of course my first thought was a snake…but a snake wouldn’t have left a pile of feathers on the ground.

So I figure that something either pulled the birds out of the box or they fledged and were attacked on the ground. The nest was soaking wet, no doubt from the torrential rains we’ve gotten over the past six days, so I wonder if water had something to do with it?

But then tonight I found this neat Web site with daily photos of baby bluebirds. I went back and looked at the dates on my images and realized that my bluebirds would have been darn close to fledging. So I’m just going to pretend that the babies flew away to start their new lives somewhere near the farm.

I cleaned out the old nest and left the box open to air out in the sun. I have hope that Mr. and Mrs. may return to raise another brood this summer.

The baby bluebirds are starting to get their feathers.

I only could see three babies this time. I am not sure if the other two are under the pile or if they were shoved out of the nest box. Will have to check again soon.

Lately I can’t seem to work a full time job and also  find the hours to mow and weedwhack my couple acres of overgrown lawn, nor can I finish my deer fence, hoe the garden, plan the garden plantings, plant the garden, rake up the maple helicopters, or even remember that Monday night is trash night until the sound of the truck wakes me up at five Tuesday morning.

But tonight I’m working on a freelance job on the computer with Tucker lying at my feet, and kitty hanging out on the armchair right next to us. I’ve just come in from feeding and watering the guineas while the pullets pecked around the coop. All five baby bluebirds are wide-eyed and alert and quadrupled in size, stuffed in their nest box and waiting for worms. Nobody’s missing, sick, bleeding, dying, whining, inappropriately peeing, misbehaving or unaccounted for. And that makes it a very good night on the farm.

All five of the bluebird eggs hatched!

And Papa Bluebird has been busy bringing bugs.

Today, on Easter Sunday, with what couldn’t have been more perfect timing, I was thrilled to discover my first guinea egg.

Here’s how it went down in a rather magical way. This morning around eight I opened the guinea coop so the birds could come out. The first chore on my list was cleaning out the coop, a disgusting task that involves shoveling and scraping manure and pine shavings followed by blowing feather dust out of all the coop crannies with the air compressor. While I labored the birds roamed the entire property, sticking close together while enjoying the dew on the grass and all the fresh bugs. Since the massacre I’ve hardened myself to their fate, and I no longer go after them when they head into the woods or out of sight in the field. I figure that they all experienced the night when their flock mates were dragged shrieking into the woods, and if that didn’t teach them to stick around nothing will.

After finishing the coop, I carried on with other farm chores but left it open to air out. The guineas did their thing, which hopefully involved eating lots of ticks. Around three I dumped in fresh pine shavings, and added cool clean water and food to tempt the birds inside. I went in the house to shower off the guinea dust, and when I came back downstairs I noticed the birds were in the doorway of the coop—certainly a welcome sight after their recent deadly doorway skittishness. I headed out to shut them inside for the day.

I glanced in the coop as I was closing the door and did a double take. Sitting right on the fresh pine shavings was a perfect light brown egg. The guineas hadn’t been in their house for more than a few minutes, and when I picked up the egg it was still warm with a tiny bit of fresh blood on the shell. It actually was amazing, this thing so perfectly manifested out of what seemed like thin air. When I picked up the egg, the past year’s emotional and physical work of keeping these birds was totally worth it. And my mom will no longer need to say, “If you’re going to go to all this trouble you should at least get something that makes eggs!” Can you spot the egg below?

I took the egg in the house for a quick photo shoot, to show you what it looks like compared with some chicken eggs I got from a friend’s farm. The guinea egg is on the right. I think it’s pretty amazing that this hen—and I have no idea who she is—laid in the coop after a whole day of freedom. Guineas are known for laying outside under the cover of brush. And unlike chickens, they don’t use nest boxes.

I didn’t know what to do with the egg! At first I returned it to the coop thinking it may encourage the hen to continue laying, but when I checked on the birds a few hours later, the egg was buried and forgotten in the pine shavings. I didn’t want to accidentally step on it in the coop, so I found it and brought it in the house where I stuck it in the fridge. If anyone would like to sample a guinea egg, it’s all yours! They are supposed to be delicious.

And if that weren’t enough eggcitement, check out what’s in the bluebird box!

And that, my friends, is how we do an Easter egg hunt at Bonafide Farm.

Thank you all for your comments and e-mails in response to my last post. It certainly helped to know you all are out there.

Since all of my recent posts have been about death, let’s liven things up with today’s discovery:

I opened the bluebird box and it appears that Mr. and Mrs. have decided to stay. The obnoxious starlings seem to have lost that battle, and I’m seeing the bluebird pair all about the property as they get ready for their family. And the deceased guineas’ feathers are padding the nest. I couldn’t think of a better use for them. It’s a small consolation that means a lot right now.

Cryin’. Sunday was a bad night to be a guinea at Bonafide Farm. I lost seven of my remaining thirteen birds to the foxes.

It all started a few weeks back when the entire flock was panicked while re-entering their coop for the night. Since then I’d had them out once, the night I lost two birds who wouldn’t go back in the coop at dark. I thought maybe they’d gotten over their fear, and let them out Sunday to enjoy the warming weather and booming tick population.

Come nightfall, the entire flock refused to go in the coop. As it grew dark they huddled in the weak pool created by the coop light, all thirteen birds in a tight knot. I kept going out throughout the evening, trying to round them in. They’d all get to right under the door of the coop and scatter without entering.

Near midnight I tried an emergency rescue. I shut off all lights on the farm so the birds couldn’t see, which made them freeze in place, and I entered the field with a flashlight hoping to physically grab each bird and return it to the coop. I managed to snag four. I had my hands on many others, and one of the sickest sensations I’ve experienced is desperately hanging onto the wing of a large, terrified bird, feeling its joints pop open under my fingers as it fought me but knowing that if I let go it would surely be killed. As whole handfuls of feathers tore away in my hands the birds chose their fates.

I closed up the coop on the rescued four and went to bed. I dreamed of dog attacks in the woods, and calling to my brother for a shotgun he never delivered.

In the morning a small group of birds were screaming near my back porch. Another was 50 feet high in my neighbor’s oak tree, so small I could barely make her out in the dawn light. I stepped outside and at the woodline saw a fox scramble back into the forest.

I had eight birds remaining. By lunch there were four. I walked the fields counting piles of feathers. Some had bloody flesh hanging on them, still moist. I found one pile—the only slate blue bird I’d had left—right up against my house near the fireplace. By nightfall two birds had emerged from hiding.

The flock of six entered the coop that night, and I shut the door behind them. That night there was a huge windy thunderstorm, and most of the feathers blew away.

Kitty got her first mouse last week. Good kitty!