The Migration.

So, I had to move the chicks. Easier said. First I had to catch them and shove them in boxes. The ones with white feathers on their heads and where their shoulders would be, if chickens had shoulders, are very fast and very nimble. There's an uncaught one on the right here:

Eventually I got half of them into boxes and the boxes and feeder and whatnot into the car. Monique was in the front, Brigid in the crate and Charlie tied up. All under control so off we went:

Unfortunately, one box wasn't up to the task. The bottom fell out and I then had to catch the chicks again, only this time in a car.

It was hot and humid, later there was a hailstorm, bugs were all over me. I felt pressured, chicks to move, logs to stack, floors to wash, pasture to pick and I wanted to sand some deck before the storm. Overwhelmed and rushing I forgot to close the gate by the barn so, of course, I then had interested visitors:

The procedure then became, elbow equines out of way, open tailgate, grab box, open stall gate, close stall gate, open henhouse door, tip chicks out of box while watching for earlier chicks escaping and full grown hens wanting in. Chase down escaped chicks. Repeat.

Once the car was empty I drove back to the house, caught another boxload, put it in the car and went back in for more chicks. When I came out I found that even the cat had decided to get in on the act.

I reached for him but he ran into the car. The procedure for this load then was the same as before but with the need to swat the cat out of the way after elbowing equines and grabbing box.

"Bucolic" ought to be a synonym for "exhausting".