The wind is so cold. I close up all the vents in the coop, rig up a door made of foam insulation to cover the screen door currently in place, duct-tape all the seams, throw a tarp over the top for one more meager layer of insulation. The wind takes the tarp right off, sends it snapping at the end of its line, sends the chickens scurrying in terror from the noise. My fingers become clumsy and cannot work the cord to tie it back down, but the cord has been snapped anyway. I cut a new length, hold a flame to the end to sear the frayed edge together. The flame will not stay lit, even with my whole body hunched around it, crouched low, cradling the damn lighter close to my belly. My numb hands can barely operate the child-resistant mechanism. Finally I can keep the flame burning long enough for it to do its job; not until I am back inside do I realize I've burnt my fingers.


At six o'clock, before my frantic ministrations, the thermometer sensor read 26 degrees in the coop. At 20 degrees they start getting frostbite on their combs and toes. I tried to smear Bag Balm on all the ones with large combs, which is supposed to protect them, but the one who looks the most like she might have gotten frostbitten already just would not be caught. After twenty minutes, much squawking, a few wing-punches to the face, and bashing my skull on the corner of the roost, I gave up. She can stick her head under her wing.

Now, at eight-thirty, the roost is at thirty degrees. Outdoors the temperature is 23. Tonight is supposed to be the really last cold night for a while, with a low of 18. I think they'll be warm enough. I hope so.