As I weeded a patch of string beans one July morning, sadness overcame me

The plants were loaded with beans, but the silence got to me

My garden adjoins our chicken run Whenever I’m planting, weeding, or harvesting, our 14 hens are my companions They watch me from just beyond the fence and encourage my work with cheerful, expectant clucking The hens joyfully feast whenever I toss tasty weeds or vegetable thinnings over the fence  But, on that July morning no perky hens kept me company

Whenever we bring a pail of kitchen scraps