Yesterday was warm, in the seventies, so I reached in and lifted them out one by one. By midafternoon it was cloudy, cold, and blustery. Most of the chicks had found a kitty carrier they were sheltered in. Two remained outside, their feathers puffed out to shield against the cold. One chick had its head down and eyes closed.
My son Wyatt and I rounded them up with a fishing net and placed them in the Mutt Memorial Hut, a sturdy wooden enclosure with screen windows and a latched door. It housed our lamb Mutt, short for Muttonhead, who was bottle-fed indoors for a week. She felt she belonged in the house. The Mutt Hut, which is visible from our kitchen window, was our compromise.
So The Birds are enclosed once again, but in a bigger shelter that allows them more freedom. A big kids' room without the big kids' responsibilities. I could imagine the chicks at night telling ghost stories about a bleating, woolly apparition. Growing up is great but there's no hurry. There's plenty of time to take on the world.