I somehow missed the point of this book. I've read the reviews, the ones that speak of its humour: how it's wry, funny, honest. How it's a meditation on motherhood, loss and grief. Somehow all this passed me by. What I read was the story of a woman and her bit-part husband who kept a few chickens in the back yard: chickens who, against the odds, one by one die. There are exhaustive accounts of the day-to-day lives of said chickens. We also eventually learn of this woman's miscarriage some months ago, and that it means she will never be able to bear children - which understandably weighs on her. Various characters put in occasional appearances: her friend Helen and the baby son who accompanies her; her mother; a neighbour who doesn't like the noise the chickens make. I got far enough with the book that I thought I might as well finish it - it's short enough. But - I'm clearly out of step here, it's clearly my loss - I was relieved to finish it. ( )

A friend recommended this book because of the writing. It was beautiful writing but most of all, it was a quiet book which I needed after reading Voices From Chernobyl. ( )

I’m not big on super descriptive writing, but I was really impressed by this book, which is full of eloquent, intelligent descriptions, some of them quite unexpected and strange. The narrator describes everything—her chickens (especially her chickens), the people in her life, the plants in her yard, house cleaning methods, and anything else she sees or that comes into her head. It’s the kind of book that usually drives me crazy, but it didn’t this time because it was so original, and the descriptions rang so true.
I was disappointed by the ending, which felt so much like the loss of hope to me. I could guess how it would end up, but I hadn’t realized how bleak things would seem when I got there. This book is the community read for my hometown this year, and I’d love to hear what the author says about the ending.
The more I think about it, the more I have a sense of numbness and helplessness from the narrator, both the result of her grief. I don’t know if that was the intent, another reason to hope for a recording of the author’s appearance at the end of the community read. This is the kind of book that rattles around in your brain for a while.
I picked this up because I knew the author when she was a child—her family went to my church—and I was curious what kind of writer she would turn out to be. I was so happy to find that she’s a fantastic writer, and I’m glad I found out about her book. ( )

"Brood" is one of those wonderful words whose meaning depends on context, on usage. This novel, likewise, may be the simple story of a brood of chickens, kept for eggs, for companionship, for diversion, and the brooding of the chickens as an act of care and stewardship. But it is also, simultaneously, the brooding on loss, and the possibility of never having a brood of one's own. This novel is quiet, meditative, carefully observed, written in language both simple and beautiful. It is a lovely piece of work. ( )

A metaphorical story about loss. Not sure who would like this book. The chickens come alive. ( )