Picking them manually meant labor she could not afford.
Mowing repeatedly meant fuel.
Mulching heavy windfalls created other issues.
The hens could consume insects, larvae, weed seeds, and portions of damaged fruit while scratching surface litter apart.
They would deposit manure.
They could reduce mowing.
They could produce eggs.
But they could also destroy young roots if concentrated too long.
Damage bark.
Overload nutrients.
Spread pathogens if poorly managed.
Become coyote food.
Become hawk food.
Become sick.
Become expensive.
The idea was not genius.
It was work.
Avery liked work better than hope.
So she designed a test.
Fourteen acres.
Divided into mobile paddocks.
No birds in blocks still awaiting fruit harvest.
Supplemental feed every day.
Clean water.
Portable shelters.
Electric poultry netting.
Rotation every two or three days depending on soil and bird behavior.
Control rows without birds.
Soil sampling.
Pest counts.
Fallen fruit counts.
Labor logs.
Fuel logs.
Feed logs.
Egg counts.
Mortality.
Everything.
When she showed Earl, he read six pages before speaking.
“You actually planned this.”
“What did you think I was doing?”
“Having a nervous breakdown with poultry.”
Avery smiled.
“Can be both.”
He looked at her.
Then at the notebook.
“What does it cost?”
She told him.
His eyebrows rose.
“That’s a lot of money for an experiment.”
“It’s less than one more full conventional cleanup pass plus winter feed for birds I already have.”
“You don’t already have five hundred birds.”
“I will.”
Earl stared.
“You sound exactly like your father right before buying the second tractor.”
“That tractor lasted twenty-three years.”
“It also had an electrical fire.”
“After twenty-one.”
“That is not a defense.”
Avery bought the hens.
Now Frank Wheeler was standing at her fence laughing.
“You know chickens don’t eat debt, right?” he called.
Avery walked toward him.
Mud sucked at her boots.
Frank pointed toward a hen attacking a rotten apple.
“Look at that.”
“She’s eating cider.”
Kyle laughed.
Travis added:
“Give them another hour and they’ll be drunk.”
Avery stopped at the fence.
“They’re not getting drunk.”
Frank grinned.
“How do you know?”
“Because fermentation byproduct doesn’t magically turn livestock into cartoon alcoholics.”
“That sounded rehearsed.”
“It is.”
She had already answered that question fourteen times.
Frank took a drink.
“You should sell before winter.”
Avery’s smile disappeared.
“Sell what?”
“The low orchard.”
“You’re going to lose trees.”
“I already lost trees.”
“More.”
“Maybe.”
“I’d still buy the east side.”
“I know.”
“My offer stands.”
“No.”
Frank sighed.
“You got your father’s stubbornness.”
“No.”
Avery looked him directly in the eye.
“I got his land.”
That ended the conversation for a moment.
Behind her, several hundred chickens spread through the orchard.
Some scratched beneath trees.
Some chased one another.
Some discovered a pile of windfall apples and descended on it with the intensity of a small riot.
Avery turned away.
Frank called:
“When this turns into a muddy circus, don’t come asking us to bail you out.”
Avery stopped.
She looked back over her shoulder.
Her cheeks were red from cold.