Highrise aviaries.

Our chickens, despite having safe and warm lodgings in the henhouse, seem to prefer to sleep rough, like with their wilder avian cousins.

Come sunset, they make their way to their favourite alder trees, and along with the guinea fowl and pheasants, roost the night away, perched on branches high above the ground. This may be some kind of evolutionary devolution. Or perhaps they imagine themselves to be in some kind of multi storey,  New York  condo life style.

Either way, as the night draws in, these trees become, for a short time, a rowdy neighbourhood. And then, when its dark ... silence. You can walk past them, and never know they are there. Spooky.

In the meantime, as they get more and more feral, egg laying is increasingly an informal and al fresco business. Each chicken tends to favour her own private bush, and we need to be vigilant indeed to keep ourselves in breakfasts.

Mike is trying to entice them back to a more civilized life, tempting them back into their hutches at night with various chook treats, but has only met with limited success. Mostly they regard bribery with haughty disdain.