It started as an experiment.
One late night, watching Geoff Lawton’s videos on regenerative systems, I stumbled upon his method of chicken-aided composting.
The idea was simple and brilliant: let the chickens do the turning, scratching, and aerating of the compost heap.

At first, it sounded too idealistic — poetic even. But the next morning, I built the bay.

I layered the base with dry leaves, straw, and kitchen waste, then added green fodder, goat manure, and bits of leftover vegetable harvests.
By evening, the chickens had already claimed it — scratching through it, turning it, hunting grubs, spreading it thin, and reshaping it again.

Over the next few weeks, I barely lifted a fork. The pile decomposed faster, smelled sweeter, and stayed aerated without effort.
It became less of a “waste system” and more of a living collaboration — a closed circle where food scraps fed chickens, and chickens fed the soil.

Now, every morning, when I scatter a handful of feed near the heap, they come running — not for the grain, but for the insects that thrive in the compost.
In their dance, I see the simplest truth of permaculture: nothing is waste if you let life handle it.

This chicken compost system has become my quiet teacher.
It reminds me that regeneration isn’t about designing perfection; it’s about stepping back and letting the ecosystem find its own efficiency.

The compost steams in the cool morning air, the chickens chatter softly, and I feel less like a farmer, more like a participant in something wiser than myself.