They say that Eskimos have several words for snow. There is a word for the first falling snow, a word for deep snow, a word for snow on the boughs of trees, a word for deep, soft snow, a word for snow that blows indoors, and about a dozen others.
I only have two words for snow: dandruff snow: that thin, flaky snow that falls lightly and never accumulates. And real snow: the stuff that sticks together and makes something happen.
We got our first real snow this weekend. Large, airy flakes that seemed to instantly cover the grass like a white blanket. It was absolutely lovely.
The next day, in our household, the serious business of sledding began. Our backyard has a decent hill at the edge of the property line, so the girls worked hard making trails that avoided garden boxes and fruit trees and trampoline frames. They tried out their different sleds, until figuring out which ones worked best on which paths.
The chickens, never silent beings, were quite vocal about everything that happened outdoors this weekend.
The ladies’ feathers bristled and bunched in the eerie quiet before the snow storm. They squawked loudly at the falling snow and flapped their wings in dismay. They crooned and cackled in the morning, trying to encourage someone to bring them warm food. They clucked disapprovingly at the girls working hard outside because they failed to bring the chickens treats to eat. The hens chirruped with concern when the ultimate sledding trail ended within two feet of their pen. They even scolded, loudly, when an ownerless, escaped sled slid gently up against their fence. That poor plastic, inflatable tube got quite a fowl tongue lashing.
As you can see, I may not have many words for snow, but I’ve learned quite a few words about the sounds chickens make.
It’s all a question of priorities.