Goldie is out of brooding. The babies are growing up–Henrietta sounds less like a chick and more like an almost-hen. Mabelene still can’t seem to get that last toe to splay backward and thus, still runs like a little speed-skater, head down low, full speed ahead. Marge still wants to take a beakful out of anything with feathers that’ll move. Everyone’s out in the backyard together during the daytime (and trying to eat all of my potted annuals), and in their separate fenced quarters at night. Time marches on.