The Rooster’s Crow

Throughout history, we have been fed with the idyllic image of a beautiful farm located someplace amongst the lush rolling hills of the upper north east. The fully restored 1800’s farmhouse. The bright white rail fences. The grand red barn with the white trim. All set within the bright green stocks of corn waving in the morning breeze. Below in the valley, a weft of smoke drifts from a chimney. The pristine white steeple that stands tall among the trees.

Out of the darkness comes strutting the farm’s blue- ribbon winning Rhode Island Red rooster. Sleek and bold, he silently slips between the shadows as he leaves his roosting place amongst his girls. Out across the drive and then with an effortless leap he is on the fence. In a flash he disappears back into the shadows only to be seen shortly after standing in the doorway of the hayloft. He takes a quick look around and again slips back into the shadows. Soon, there in the twilight he can be seen, standing proudly atop the barn’s peak. All is quiet and serene.

Gazing down from his vantage point, he looks this way and that, surveying his territory to be sure all is well. Suddenly, the first rays of sunlight pierce the darkness. The shadows shift as he gazes off to the west. He turns back to the east as the leading edge of that burning golden orb ascends above the hillside. He takes one last look to the west, peers out at the north lawns, takes in the view of the south forty. He turns back to the east. He resets his feet, puffs up his chest, stretches his neck to its limit and lets out a crisp and clear “cock-a-doodle-do, cock-a-doodle-do, cock-a-doodle-do“, heralding the start of a new day on the farm.

Eric Lofgren (c) 2009