It's no coincidence that, in the Northern Hemisphere, Easter occurs in spring, inferring abundance, fertility and regeneration. Somewhere along the way, furry or feathered woodland animals became synonymous with Easter tradition and bunnies and chicks are now the order of the day. As it happens, I am fortunate to be blessed with my own feathered family in my suburban hinterland.
I've kept hens for several years now, deluding myself with a guise of self-sufficiency. It wasn't until a new neighbour moved in that I realised my poultry-keeping aspirations were lightweight. My neighbour is a poultry professional, a breeder no less, who enters shows and wins ribbons for the perfect buff or pencil, blue, red or spangled. His flock has quickly charmed the neighbourhood and people stop to point and coo at the gate.
The excitement grew when the chicks started hatching. There's one young mother who has become a regular on my side of the hedge, with her clutch in tow. They arrive at daybreak and camp on my porch awaiting favours, which of course I supply. They leave as the sun goes down with tummies full. The neighbour has cornered me at the gate a couple of times, "They don't eat a thing when they get home," he wonders. "Oh, I think it's the children; they feed them," I lie shamelessly.
I was dismayed when it was announced mum and bubbas had been listed on Trade Me but, bird-lover that he is, my neighbour has recognised my infatuation and has done a U-turn on the auction.
