In the quiet lull of a sunlit garden, a hen walks not alone—beside her, a tiny echo of her shape toddles through the soft earth. The chick, wrapped in innocence and fuzz, follows close, its every move a lesson in trust. The mother watches with eyes of patience, her wings always slightly parted, ready to shield, guide, protect.
There is no rush here, only rhythm—cluck, peep, scratch. The soil opens gently beneath them, as if offering its secrets to these gentle foragers. The chick stumbles, rises, watches. It learns how to be, not by words, but by presence. And the hen, a figure of both quiet strength and loving warmth, leads with more than instinct—she leads with grace.
They are a painting in motion, framed by stems, scattered petals, and the golden hush of morning. The garden is their sanctuary, their school, their universe. Each step leaves more than prints; it leaves heartbeats, bonds, a language of care that transcends species.
The chick chirps with wonder, every sight new, every rustle exciting. Yet it always returns to the soft shadow of its mother. There, beneath the curve of a wing, the world makes sense. There, all fear disappears.
Motherhood in feathers. Love in steps. Wisdom in silence. The garden blooms, not just with flowers, but with the poetry of protection. A hen and her chick—symbols of gentleness walking through eternity.