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eggs snatched away? Do they hold out hope that warm eggs will hold new life? Could I anthropomorphize poultry any more?
    Ian is a master of doing nothing, of living in the moment and feeling the world pulse around him. Me, I’m a bit more restless, my brain an endless whir. Shivering at the table, I think, The concrete needs to be sealed maybe I should get pavers too bad we don’t have a swimming pool but there really isn’t room the avocado tree is doing well not sure what’s going on with the lemon must ask Carmen to talk to the gardener I hope the chickens were a good idea what happens if one dies will Ian fall apart?
    The chickens. They’re supposed to help me relax. Think about the chickens.
    There are five birds in all. The two big Rock Bards have black and white speckles and bright red crowns: very French country. They lay the most and the biggest eggs. Inasmuch as creatures that operate almost entirely on instinct and reflex can be assigned personality traits, the two Rhode Island Reds, brown with red crowns, are the friendliest. Finally, the one Americana—small, brown, and skittish, vaguely reminiscent of a tubby, earthbound hawk—would be a total write-off if not for its small and precious eggs. The eggs are green. And yes, we have been known to eat them with ham.
    Ian named all the chickens. He swears the two Rock Bards, Salt and Pepper, are easy to tell apart (they’re not) but that only he knows the difference between the two Rhodies, Rusty and Red. I refer to all four of them as the Chickens, even though Ian protests. He says that’s like calling him the Kid. Thanks to her green eggs, Ian took inspiration from Dr. Seuss and called the Americana Sam.
    We started out with six fluffy yellow chicks, two of each kind, all supposedly female. But at eight weeks, it was clear, at least to anyone who’d been examining pictures of bird genitalia on one of several Web sites devoted to backyard chickens, that one of the Americanas was a rooster.
    “Why can’t we keep him?” Ian asked.
    “Because he would mate with the girl chickens.” I’ve never shielded my son from the facts of life.
    “So?”
    “So roosters can get aggressive. Besides, we don’t need the eggs fertilized, so there’s no point.” Of course, sex is easier to explain when it’s something that other people do, without any uncomfortable images of Mommy and Daddy groping in the darkness.
    “We couldn’t keep the rooster even if we wanted to,” I told Ian. “We’re zoned for hens but not roosters. Roosters are too noisy.”
    After they finish eating, most of the chickens venture into the yard, stepping like ladies in high heels navigating an icy sidewalk. One Rhodie walks up the ramp to the henhouse and settles into the egg-laying corner.
    Ian plops down into the chair next to me. “What do you think chickens think about?”
    I run a hand over his hair. “Nothing. I think they think about nothing.”
    “Well, I think you’re wrong.”
    The whipped cream and marshmallows have already dissolved into his hot chocolate, but Ian doesn’t care. He sips the sweet brew, watches and waits. And waits. And waits.
    “You have any homework this weekend?”
    “No.” A white foam mustache quivers above his lip.
    “You sure?”
    “I’m sure.”
    A third grader, Ian began a gifted program this year. The greater workload resulted in some initial growing pains; during his fall conference, his teacher expressed concern about missing and incomplete assignments. After the conference, I bought Ian a giant calendar and helped him devise a filing system. It has made a world of difference.
    “Don’t forget to practice piano before your lesson this afternoon.”
    “Mm.”
    Ian doesn’t like it when I nag. Neither do I.
    We go back to watching the chickens.
    “I wish I had a different name,” he says, eyes still on the chickens.
    “Why? What’s wrong with Ian?”
    He shrugs. “I just wish I were called something else.”
    “Like