Summer of the marine layer

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It's been a summer of chickens, of guests and revisions. And a summer of the marine layer.

I nearly added marine layer to the previous post of things which you never dream. Lol. I certainly didn't anticipate a marine layer figuring so significantly in my life. Mostly due to not realizing that living along the California coast would occur, nor how some summers that heavy cloud bank claims said coast without thought to those who call the coastal area home.

But yeah, the marine layer wins again this morning.

It's just about time to feed the chickens, 6.20 a.m. currently. If the marine layer wasn't so pushy, I'd get up from the sofa, put on sweats and a hoodie, then collect their feeder, walking to the coop, admiring planets still visible; Venus and Jupiter have decorated the morning sky most of the month, Mercury appearing along the eastern edge, thrilling me completely. Today the marine layer barged in before I spotted the smallest planet in our solar system, blotting out the beauty of larger worlds that shone brightly in a rare clear sky. Now it's 6.25, enough light for me to get off the couch, as those chickens are waiting....

Maybe this will also be a chicken post. It's now seven o'clock; my husband woke shortly after I came back inside and we've chatted, so he's off for a shower. Thick fog now conceals the eastern treeline, but the chickens don't care because once the motion sensor light is tripped as I approach the coop, they begin to not quite cluck, but definitely chirp and peep. I don't turn on their light until I've shoved the small stump away from the coop door, but despite their poor eyesight in the dark, once the light is on (and I've opened the door), I find them gathered right where I need to step inside, lol. The last two mornings Camilla stood on the blocks where the feeder rests, silly pullet. Today I had to shoo her off, then I could place the feeder in its spot and within seconds all had surrounded it, pecking at breakfast eagerly.

Owl looks up, recently disturbed by Little Camilla, on her left, getting huffy at the Barnevelder one over from Owl.

They don't care a whit about marine layers or fog. Only for being fed, and some momentary companionship as I croon good morning to them. Owl looked up, after Little Camilla on Owl's left reached over Owl and pecked at one of the Barnevelders, causing a brief commotion. Then Owl Chicken, who is a Welsummer, stepped away from the feeder, hopping onto the low perch, taking in the morning. She then rejoined her pullet sisters, but on the opposite side of the feeder from previously, perhaps not wanting to share her space with Little Camilla.

Owl is my fave chicken; I love how curious and thoughtful she is.

(Who is so named because she looks just like Camilla, both of those Welsummers a shade lighter than Owl. Little Camilla is the most independent of the group, and DETESTS being picked up for any reason at all.)

I'm getting pretty sick of the marine layer, might I say. Today is funny because not only did it muscle in like a certain chicken I know, but has gripped the landscape with an accompanying fog that acts like Little Camilla. Like the fog wants to peck us into submission, although I'm seated on the stitching sofa, snug under a Kawandi lap quilt, so TAKE THAT fog! A tall warm cup of tea proffers further shielding from the dang fog, alongside my memory of the Big Dipper, Jupiter, and Venus from two hours ago. I swear I saw them, I truly did. Yet the marine layer giggles like a truculent child or chicken, as though I've lost my ever-loving mind.

The kerfuffle of earlier now long forgotten as Owl is back with her crew.

Thankfully the chickens can't attempt such nefarious schemes. And honestly, I know the marine layer is merely the result of nature. Yet at times it feels sinister, obscuring the gorgeous late summer daybreak as though I won't view another. Today is the last day of August, is that possible? I guess so, as the chickens are pushing ten weeks old, dude! In another buncha weeks we'll transition them from chick crumble to layer feed, and while I'll still be getting those early morning steps to ensure they don't starve, no longer will a feeder remain available to them all day long. They were just these tiny puffballs, right? They peeped with impunity, now they attempt to cluck. They'll never outwit the marine layer, nor shall I. But one of these days summer will be past, and the sky will remain clear, though Jupiter won't be visible and Venus will have moved to a different area, the Big Dipper too. The chicks will be hens, laying eggs, CRAZY! And this summer of the ubiquitous marine layer will have altered to the autumn of....

Whatever it's supposed to be. Goodbye August. We'll see you again in eleven months, God willing.

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