for whom the rooster crows
And the sound of cock-a-doodle-do lights up the morning. And the afternoon. And the evening. A lot.
My little rooster is all grown up.
Clooney, the rooster, has finally learned how to crow, and my little cock (yep, I said it…couldn’t resist) is an overachiever. He doesn’t just crow in the morning. He crows all day long. And he does it perched on the highest surface he can reach, so we have a rooster standing on the top of the coop. Then on the window sill. Then on the truck. Then on the duck house. Then…well, you get the picture. He gets around.
I’m not complaining. I love the sound. I’ve been waiting for him to crow since I discovered he was a cockerel and not a pullet. (You know, a boy and not a girl.) It almost seems complete out here on the haunted farm. We just need a few pigs and goats and someone other than me to take care of them. Just saying.
Oh, and we need those damn baby ducks to grow up already. I feel like I’m tending to a bunch of gremlins. They even decided to swim in their baby pool during a torrential downpour at three in the morning! Thunder, lightning, heavy rain, and a group of baby ducks swimming in a baby pool in my back yard. Yeah, never a dull moment around here. And now we even have a herald to announce the new day.
Maybe I can ditch the alarm clock now.
Until the next time…I’ll be waking up early.