“Next year?”
She nodded.
“Smaller bird groups.”
“More rotation.”
“Better fencing.”
“Different control strips.”
The brother groaned.
“More chickens.”
The Farm Woman smiled.
“Better chickens.”
“There are better chickens?”
“No.”
“Just better management.”
Her father laughed.
The neighbors began their own testing that autumn.
Not chickens.
Not yet.
The oldest farmer started with compaction.
He hated the results.
The probe resistance increased dramatically below eight inches in several zones.
Then infiltration.
Water moved slowly in the most heavily trafficked sections.
The Farm Woman watched him kneel beside the test ring.
He stared at the water.
“Thought this field drained fine.”
“It does after light rain.”
“What about heavy rain?”
He looked toward her.
“Puddles.”
“How long?”
“Day.”
“Sometimes two.”
She said nothing.
He exhaled.
“All right.”
They dug roots next.
Corn roots turned sideways near the compacted layer.
The farmer swore.
The Farm Woman smiled.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re enjoying this.”
“No.”
“You absolutely are.”
“A little.”
He shook his head.
“Terrible person.”
“Probably.”
They spent three hours mapping problem zones.
His friends helped.
By afternoon, the same farmers who once laughed at chickens were arguing about soil structure.
That amused her more than any apology could have.
The second year taught her not to become arrogant.
Spring arrived wet.
Too wet.
Moving the chicken shelters became difficult.
One group spent too long in a section.
Surface damage increased.
Rain followed.
The area became muddy and compacted.
Exactly the opposite of what she wanted.
The Farm Woman stood in the field furious with herself.
Her brother approached.
He looked at the damaged strip.
Then at her.
“Chickens fixed the soil?”
She glared.
He smiled.
“Sorry.”
“No, you’re not.”
“No.”
The Farm Woman crouched.
The soil surface was churned.
Manure concentrated too heavily.
Her stocking density had been wrong for wet conditions.
She wrote it down.
Her brother watched.
“You’re not quitting.”
“No.”
“You should probably feel worse.”
“I feel terrible.”
“You don’t look terrible.”
“What should I do?”
“Cry into the chickens?”
He laughed.
She stood.
“We move them today.”
“Where?”
“Higher ground.”
“Then repair this.”
“How?”
“Cover crop.”
“Rest.”
“Minimal traffic.”
Her brother nodded.
“Good.”