The poultry industry often severs the beaks of layer hens with a practice known as ‘debeaking.’ In Nepal, both the upper and lower beaks are heavily trimmed, even for chickens sold to be raised in the backyard, making it obvious which were born in the village and which in the factory.

The Face Behind The Eggs

I didn’t notice the beak of the sweetest red hen at first, when she was playing alone in the kiwi patch. Then I asked if she had fallen on her face.

Watching her, and later many others, eat with their tongues exposed makes it a lot easier to skip the eggs or opt for tofu.

Boiled eggs really helped me and my sensitive digestion on the trails but back in civilization, a sunny-side up isn’t vital for my avo toast anymore.

Recently I have found happy hen eggs for sale at Fishtail Organic Garden in Pokhara. Priced at 25 rupees a piece, I purchased my first couple yesterday.

Day 1,524

We speak aloud to the animals that can understand us, because we can understand them. In my case it will always be chickens, having brought up nine from the palms of my hands.

The previous day I chuck aloo (potato) and makki ki roti (corn flatbread) at two reds; one begs at me vocally.

Today a young hen plays under the kiwi vines. Throughout the whole circuit, densely feathered bottoms are fanned out by bitter Himalayan gusts. This afternoon is no exception.

This girl laid her first eggs this week, but now no more. She is alone for the other three of her flock are long digested and shat out.

Yesterday morning, a fur ball no more than four days old fell out of a truck just outside the trekking permit checkpoint. The police didn’t seem to mind the shrieks emitted without end from a cardboard box.

I asked for ‘kukura,’ and scooped it up. It instantly quieted from within the warm hearth of my palm.

Neck seeking support.

Eyelids heavy.