Our wonderful neighbour was over to bush-hog my field last night. I need to move the greenhouse this year (not looking forward to it, no), and there were some robust shrubs growing right where it needs to go.
Anyhoo, he was driving around, mowing, and once, right when he came to a stop, I saw the weeds rustle directly in front of his front wheel. As he backed out, I ran to the spot, fearing that a bird had been hit (I’d been paranoid and been tramping through all the weeds in front of him trying to flush out frightened chickens that were used to the tall weeds being a safe zone).
Horrors! A nest!
A guinea nest. His front tractor wheel had rolled into it, crushing a half dozen eggs, but not rolled over it, so most of the eggs were intact. The eggs were kindled, with bloody yolks, but only a few days past. I quickly scooped out shells and yolks, tossing them out, trying to clean up the mess with my fingers and restore her nest. It was a nice nest, too, dried grasses lined up in a swirl.
The hen herself had stayed to the bitter end, jumping out only when that black tire loomed over her, and we had both seen her flee at the last second. My flushing hadn’t unseated her, only imminent death.
I did not bother her again by “checking on her” that night, hoping she would come back.
I didn’t even know I had a broody guinea! I hadn’t missed her.
And what is she thinking? Aren’t there enough brats around? I’m flattered that she thinks this is a great place to raise children, but how many is enough? Sheesh.
In the morning she was on her nest. I can see her scowling in there.
Hopefully she got back on them promptly; if she returned by nightfall the remaining eggs would be fine. Now the weeds are gone, she’s far less concealed. Her nest has a view.
Right there by the pigland too, right where I was planning to shift the oinkers to next.