Douglas Brynes left Florida on a morning so bright it almost felt personal. The sun rose wide and loud over the palms, humidity already pressing against his skin like a hand that wouldn’t let go. He stood in his driveway, looked once more at the flat horizon and the restless heat, and knew—without regret—that it was time to go.
Upstate New York called to him in a quieter way.
The move surprised nearly everyone he knew. People asked him why he would trade year-round warmth for snow, why he would leave beaches for back roads and lake-effect winters. Douglas usually answered with a smile and a shrug.
“I want space,” he’d say. “And chickens.”
They laughed, assuming he was joking. He wasn’t.
Douglas had grown tired of the constant rush of Florida—of hurricanes named like acquaintances, of lawns that never slept, of days that blurred together in unchanging heat. He wanted seasons. He wanted mornings that smelled like cold earth and evenings that ended in real silence. Most of all, he wanted something small and honest to care for.
So he drove north until the air changed.
His new home sat just outside a town few people had heard of, tucked between rolling fields and lines of trees that caught fire every autumn. The house was old but sturdy, the kind that had weathered more winters than anyone could remember. Behind it stretched a patch of land just big enough for a coop, a garden, and the future Douglas had been imagining for years.
The chickens arrived in early spring—six of them, awkward and noisy, with personalities larger than their bodies. Douglas built the coop himself, measuring twice, cutting once, and fixing what he got wrong without complaint. He learned quickly that chickens were curious, opinionated, and deeply unimpressed by human authority.
Mornings became his favorite time of day.
He’d pull on boots still damp with dew, step outside as mist lifted from the ground, and hear the soft clucking that meant the flock knew he was coming. He talked to them as he worked, narrating the day like an old radio host. They listened without understanding, which somehow made it better.
The first egg came as a small miracle.
Douglas found it tucked into the straw, warm and perfect, and held it like something fragile and important. In Florida, his days had been filled with noise and motion. Here, success fit neatly in the palm of his hand.
Winter tested him, of course. Snow piled high. Water froze. The wind howled through the trees with a voice that felt ancient. But Douglas adapted, layering up, learning the rhythms of cold the same way he’d once learned the rhythms of heat. The chickens endured too, huddled together, stubborn and alive.
On quiet evenings, Douglas sat on his porch wrapped in a heavy coat, watching the sky turn from pale blue to deep indigo. The stars felt closer here, sharper, as if the cold had polished them.
He thought sometimes about Florida—the glare, the speed, the life he’d left behind. But there was no longing in the thought. Only gratitude for having listened to the urge that told him to start over somewhere slower, somewhere real.
Douglas Brynes hadn’t moved to upstate New York to escape something.
He’d moved to build something.
A life measured in seasons.
A coop filled with quiet life.
And a kind of peace he hadn’t known he was missing. 🐔❄️🌲