A rooster lives here
now.
He is beautiful.
His red feathers shine
and his black tail feathers
flounce.
His noble comb
is a rich red.
He gives voice
to his demands
off and on
all day long.
I love hearing him,
though I know
the hens
may not
off and on
all day long.
He’s taken to attacking
me
in the morning
when I open the barn door
to the pasture
and the chickens rush out.
He rushes me
sometimes,
when I forget to keep my eye on him,
and plants his beak briefly
in my knee.
Sometimes I actually hear
him coming toward me.
Yesterday, when he rushed me,
I heard him coming,
turned and got right down
in front of him
eye-to-eye,
and told him I didn’t like him
to attack me.
Calmly, I told him I wanted him to stop
that.
He stood looking at me
without flinching
or turning his head.
Then, I got up,
and, warily,
walked away from him.
He rushed me again.
So I spent more time with him,
eye-to-eye,
telling him I didn’t like that.
When I stood up again,
he didn’t rush me
and I was able to walk away
without the threatening sound
of a rooster stampeding.
This morning,
when I opened the barn door
he either ignored me
or intentionally decided
not attack.
I was pleased.
But it’s way too early
to know what this means.
He is beautiful.