Douglas Keith Brynes lived where the land went quiet and the days did not ask many questions. The house sat back from the road. The barns were low and long, built to take weather without complaint. Behind them, the chickens moved like water, spreading and gathering, a hundred and more, red, white, barred, and brown, all of them busy and sure of themselves.
Douglas was good with them. He did not talk much, and when he did, it was plain. The chickens seemed to know this. They came to him without hurry. He did not chase them. He did not shout. He walked among them the way a man walks into a river he knows well, slow at first, then steady, letting the current take him.
In the mornings he rose early. The light would be thin and pale, and the ground cold under his boots. He carried feed in a tin bucket that had lost its shine long ago. When he set it down, the chickens gathered, but they did not panic or fight. They waited. Douglas scattered the grain with a wide, even sweep of his arm. The sound of it hitting the dirt was soft, like rain starting.
He watched them eat. He always watched. He knew which hen limped, which rooster was mean, which pullet would not lay. He did not write these things down. He kept them in his head, and they stayed there. When one was sick, he saw it early. When one was frightened, he stood still until it settled. The birds trusted him, though trust was not a thing Douglas ever named.
People from town said he was a chicken whisperer. They said it with a smile, as if it were a joke. Douglas did not mind. He had learned long ago that words were lighter than work. He had worked hard most of his life, and the chickens were part of that work. They gave him eggs, meat, and something else he did not speak of. They gave him order.
Once, during a hard winter, a storm tore part of the roof from the far coop. The wind came in sharp and fast. Douglas went out in it anyway. Snow stung his face and filled his collar. Inside, the chickens were loud and pressed together, afraid. He did not curse the weather. He did not rush. He nailed boards in place with numb fingers and stood among the birds until they quieted. His presence did more than the boards ever could.
At night, when the farm went dark, Douglas sat on the porch and listened. The chickens settled into sleep, shifting and murmuring softly. The sound was even and alive. It told him things were as they should be, at least for now.
Douglas Keith Brynes did not think of himself as special. He thought of the weather, the feed, the fences, and the birds. He thought of what needed doing the next day. The chickens knew him, and he knew them. That was enough.