Sunrise on the Farm: My Day with the Chickens
The rooster thinks he’s the boss of me. That’s how every single day starts on the farm. Before my alarm even dreams about buzzing, he’s already announcing to the entire county that the sun is coming. I don’t need weather apps—I have a feathered alarm clock who never snoozes.
So, I roll out of bed, half-asleep, with my boots only halfway pulled on, and stumble toward the coop. The morning air is cool, that magical moment before the heat kicks in. There’s a faint glow stretching across the horizon, painting the barn gold, and for about thirty seconds, I think, Wow, this is peaceful. Then I open the chicken door.
Chaos. Pure chaos. You’d think I was holding front-row tickets to a Taylor Swift concert the way those hens barrel past me. They don’t care about the sunrise; they care about breakfast. Pecking, flapping, arguing over who gets the best spot at the feeder—it’s a feathered free-for-all.
I scoop feed like a professional short-order cook slinging hash browns, except my customers don’t tip. They cluck, squawk, and give me side-eye like I’m late with their coffee order. The bossy hen—her name is Marge—likes to jump up on the bucket just to remind me she runs things. Every farm has a Marge.
After feeding, I scatter scratch grain in the grass, which instantly becomes a high-stakes treasure hunt. One hen finds a particularly good kernel and suddenly the whole flock wants it. I watch them chase each other in circles, and honestly, it looks exactly like toddlers fighting over the same toy.
By mid-morning, the girls are settled, dust-bathing like they’re at the spa. Have you ever seen a chicken flop on her side, kick up dirt, and wiggle like she’s in a yoga class? It’s ridiculous and adorable all at once. That’s when I sit on the fence, coffee finally in hand, and soak in the sounds of the farm waking up.
But a chicken farmer’s day is never just feeding and watching. Nope. There are eggs to collect. This is where the real drama begins. Some hens don’t mind you reaching under them. Others? Let’s just say I’ve come away with more pecks than a high school dance floor. Still, there’s something satisfying about a warm egg in your hand—like holding a little piece of sunrise itself.
Of course, farm life isn’t all Instagram-worthy moments. There’s poop. So much poop. Cleaning the coop is less glamorous, but the payoff is fresh bedding and happy hens. And happy hens lay more eggs, which makes the circle complete.
By late afternoon, I’ve checked waterers, refilled feeders, and chased at least one escape artist back into the pen. (Looking at you, Henrietta.) The sun begins to dip, shadows stretching across the fields, and the chatter in the coop softens as the girls tuck themselves in for the night.
When I finally close the coop door, I take a breath. The rooster might think he started the day, but I know I’ve finished it. Tired, messy, and covered in feathers, I can’t help but smile. Because in between the chaos and the clucking, there’s a simple kind of joy here.
Sunrise to sunset, the chickens keep me grounded—and entertained. And tomorrow morning? Well, the rooster and I will do it all over again.
