No one asked me about taking baby chicks out into the world. I'm not for it. Except, clearly, it was right.

I spent a lot of time today watching Mama Broody with her babies. She was serious, intent, ferocious, determined, gentle, and for all that also oblivious. She has to be. Right in the face of innumerable dangers she took her babies out. One of them was only one day old and Not Ready.

Grass Rider, I call that one. She kept falling asleep, one time as she was bounced by a blade of grass in a warm puddle of sun. It was hard for her to keep up with the big four day olds and she got tired. At first she would cry as she sensed herself falling behind. "Mama Mama MAMA!" Mama Broody, I noticed, was gradually less concerned with those cries. And the cries themselves diminished over the day. She kept up well enough.

There is an entire apartment complex underneath a broody hen. Private rooms separated by lace curtains and climate controlled atmosphere. Not unlike Hermione Granger's beaded bag, there is unlimited space and you're always safe once inside. The walls of the place shape shift and gurgle reassuringly. Light filters through a million tiny barbules. Its a place of nearly zero gravity, holding sleepers any which way.