We’ve got one chicken left.

She’s a speckled Sussex with no claws at the end of her toes. We have no idea how that happened but here she is, the last survivor of a once-thriving flock of twenty-eight egg layers, meandering the expanse of our acreage and wondering where everyone is.

She’s a patient soul too. I had an early morning work meeting Friday and left the house well before dawn, so didn’t let her out. At that hour, there’s all manner of poultry predators looking for an opportunity to seize the moment of a human’s poor judgment. I just couldn’t take the chance, so left her safely tucked and locked inside her “coop”. It’s an old rabbit hutch, made of two large dog cages set in a sturdy plywood frame with a slanted roof to shed the rain. The whole unit stands on legs that place it a good four feet off the ground, and the cage doors have dual sliding-lock mechanisms. The front is wrapped in hardware cloth. Last summer, when we transitioned the last two girls out of the traditional brick-and-clapboard chicken coops that sit near the creek (another midnight raid that wiped out six of the remaining eight in the flock, most likely due to a marauding band of weasels or fishers), it took a while for them to learn how to fly up and into the opening to roost for the night. For a time, they’d end up settling onto the work table on the front porch at dusk, and Patrick or I would carry them to the hutch. Most nights, that involved gloved hands and a sneak-up-from-behind approach that often resulted in lots of squawking (I’ll let you figure out who) and running about, chasing them through the grove of mulberry saplings and around to the back of the house. We’d catch them eventually, of course, and tolerate dinner being late or interrupted. For all the entertainment value they’ve brought us over the years, it seemed a fair trade-off.

But on Friday, Patrick wasn’t home in the middle of the day to let her out like he usually does, and so this brave little hen with no claws on her toes didn’t get to greet the dark morning’s delivery of snow on top of a thin sheet of ice that covered every surface and every thin tree branch and froze the truck doors shut.

I got to do that.

The ice had arrived two days earlier, and stayed, which was unusual and strange. Strange to drive on dry roads and see the trees crystalline and unmoving. For two days, we walked through a fine and frozen mist from our cars to the entrances of grocery stores, schools, banks, offices and finally the doors of our homes, telling tales of near-misses and face plants when the soles of our boots lost purchase in the dark. Wednesday morning, I took a spectacular and slow-motion tumble off the slanted steps of the front deck, missing the bottom step completely. But I stuck the landing, got out a shaky “ta-da!” to no one in particular, and gingerly picked my way to the truck, grateful I hadn’t been carrying the crock-pot I needed for a dinner event that evening.

Weather-guessers predicted a wintry mix of sleet and ice followed by two inches of snow, and darn it, this time they weren’t too far off the mark. By the time I ventured out Friday morning, area schools were either closed or on a two-hour delay, and I needed to meet my boss at the office by 6:45. That meant leaving in the dark and hoping fiercely that at least one of the many townships I’d be traveling through had a stalwart salt truck driver with a compassionate work ethic. And that I’d timed my departure to end up a few car lengths behind him. Or her.

Didn’t work out that way, and at the last minute, I lost my courage and decided on an alternate route that would bypass the dreaded and steep Dry Creek hill I happily traverse in warmer, more civilized weather. The view from the top is rurally remarkable—all rolling pastures and horses grazing and the sun gilding it all like God’s front yard. The northern approach goes past a cemetery (mildly unsettling in any weather) and drops down quickly with a slight curve at the bottom, then flat for a brief stretch across the creek and back up at a steep pitch. If you’re behind a truck of any size or build, try not to follow too closely. But it’s gorgeous anyway. As the mid-way point between home and work, it gives a welcome boost at the start of the day, and a contented exhale on the way back.

I turned onto the presumably safer road feeling a bit more emboldened and rather strategic, until I remembered the hairpin curve at the bottom of a slightly less steep but still intimidating hill that swept past a Texas Longhorn steer farm. I could only hope they were safe and asleep in one of the barns, as I’d hate to land among them in the pasture when the truck went airborne despite my best efforts to stay between the yellow lines. That lovely thought helped me white-knuckle my way slowly down the hill at almost 25mph, gently pumping the breaks and bracing for the sharp turn ahead. Meanwhile, the snow continued to fluff its way down and I tried hard to see its beauty in the reassuring glow of my headlights. Whoever was driving behind me was patient and thankfully not aggressive. This breakfast meeting better have mimosas. Another helpful thought. I made it to the office with only a few more adrenaline moments and maneuvers.

I’ve been fortunate to have only driving-through-snow-and-ice success stories since we moved here. It’s part skill, part excellent vehicle choices (trucks with 4-wheel drive are essential for my peace of mind) and considerable amounts of luck and timing. But there’s an uneasiness that roils just below the surface of our romantic appreciation for a winter landscape, and it keeps us both sharp and humble. Sometimes, it’s a triumph just to make it safely across the porch and into the truck.

What any of that has to do with only having one chicken left is a connection I’ll let you make on your own. But I sure did envy her temporary captivity Friday morning.

Spring, are you listening?