Mist, Metal, and Signs in the Dirt
The morning started shrouded in fog. Heavy and still, like the land was holding its breath.
It’s rare to get mist this thick in April here in southeast Oklahoma, but when it rolls in, it turns everything soft and strange. Trees blur at the edges. Chickens cluck quieter. Even the goats hesitate at the fence line like they’re seeing the world for the first time.
I stood on the porch with my coffee, wrapped in an old flannel, just watching. Sometimes you don’t need to rush out into the day. Sometimes you just need to witness it.
But that quiet didn’t last.
Morning: Fence Work, Round Two
After the stillness lifted and the fog burned off, I headed to the east pasture for round two of the pig pen build.
Yesterday’s post-driving left my shoulders sore, but I was determined to get the second two panels in place before the week got away from me. I took it slow, pacing myself between gulps of water and arm stretches that probably looked more like flailing than yoga.
Post by post, wire by wire, it started to take shape.
There’s something satisfying about tensioned metal—the way a panel snaps into its clips, the sound of wire biting into wood just right. It's rough work, but rhythmic. Honest.
The last corner gave me a bit of trouble—post hole refused to go deep, probably hit a root or an old rock bed. I shifted it six inches, reset, and finally got it in.
The pig pen isn’t done yet, but it’s real now. Framed out. Standing. Tangible.
That’s enough for one morning.
A Strange Track by the Coop
I was heading back toward the house to refill my water bottle when I noticed something… off.
Right near the back of the chicken coop, in the soft soil from Saturday’s rain, was a set of prints.
Not goat. Not dog.
Coyote.
Clear as day.
The claw marks were long. The stride wasn’t fresh, but recent enough that my stomach did that flip it always does when something threatens my girls.
I scanned the area—no feathers, no signs of distress—but still.
I’ve lived here long enough to know what that means.
They're watching.
Afternoon: Reinforcing the Run
So, instead of starting the next compost layer like I’d planned, I pivoted into predator prevention mode.
I dragged out the hardware cloth, staple gun, extra zip ties, and a roll of landscape pins. Reinforced the bottom six inches of the coop’s exterior run. Where possible, I buried the cloth. Where I couldn’t, I flared it out like a skirt, pinned and weighted with bricks.
Checked the solar predator lights—still blinking, but I moved one to the west corner where I suspect the coyote passed.
It’s not that I’m scared. I’ve dealt with worse. But this is a reminder.
Self-sufficiency isn’t just about growing food or building things from scratch. It’s about protecting what you’ve built. Guarding it. Staying alert.
And sometimes, that means canceling your afternoon plans to lay in the dirt, zip-tying metal mesh until your hands blister.
A Quick Garden Check and an Unplanned Snack
By the time I finished with the coop, my back was protesting and the light was beginning to shift toward evening.
I walked the garden to unwind, checking the herb starts and running my fingers through the carrot tops—surprisingly full already. I’ll have to thin them soon.
Near the trellis, I spotted the first pea flower—tiny, lavender-tinged, almost bashful. It stopped me in my tracks.
I didn’t expect it this early. But there it was. A bloom in the chaos.
I picked a few sugar snap shoots, popped them into my mouth, and chewed slowly. Bright. Sweet. Alive.
Sometimes that’s all you need to reset a long, hard day—a snap pea vine and silence.
Supper and Security
Dinner tonight was a plate of humble comfort:
- A leftover sweet potato hash from Saturday
- A fresh egg scrambled with garlic chives
- Toasted sourdough with goat butter and a sprinkle of sea salt
Simple. Warm. Enough.
I ate it while watching the chickens scratch under the hackberry tree—unaware of their near-visitor. Hazel gave me her usual suspicious side-eye, but I could’ve sworn I saw a little appreciation there too. She’s the oldest. The sharpest.
She knows.
Final Thoughts
Today was a lesson in watchfulness.
In the morning, the world was hushed, blurred, holy. By afternoon, I was sweating in the dirt, battling wire and worry.
But both parts matter.
The beauty of this homestead isn’t just in the things that grow. It’s in the protection of them. The resilience. The moments when you realize: this is your post now. Your field to tend. Your flock to defend.
And though the coyote may come again, he won’t find it easy.
Not here. Not on my watch.
Tomorrow, I’ll go back to the compost. Maybe lay mulch in the lower bed. But tonight, I’ll sleep with the motion light on and peace in my heart, knowing I answered the day as best I could.
Until tomorrow—
Amanda @ Wister Creek