Farm Log #11

It’s 9:15pm. The sun is starting to set after another long, warm summer day. The flying ants (apparently, a thing!) have settled for the night and the chirps of grasshoppers have quieted. All is peaceful and serene in this slice of the Irish countryside. Your wife is 41 weeks pregnant. You wrapped up your last day of work for over 8 months. You start to brush your teeth. You peek out to make sure the chickens are all in their coop. You see your rooster, Clarkson, and 8 hens chilling in the middle of their field. You curse your loud, worthless rooster. You put your boots back on to trudge out and lure everyone back into the coop with food. That was the story of the night. Your rooster, whose sole purpose in life is to protect and organize the flock, decided it was time to sleep under the summertime stars. Useless, void-of-eggs, avian waste of space. And then this guy, this guy, had the temerity to cockadoodledoo his feather-brained head at me as if it was somehow my fault.