Wind blow death away
I will sit and listen to the voice of one lone rooster
This morning his voice matters
Because this day will be his last
© Ruby Neumann
I wrote this poem on a Saturday morning. I was overnighting at my friends place, and on the Saturday schedule was a butchering event. We had set up on Friday evening, and she was having some friends over to help her butcher about fifteen chickens. That Saturday morning before the sun was even up, I sad on the deck and the rooster was doing his morning calling. He had no idea that it was his last day. He just sang like he sang before. Maybe it was grief or just the awareness that life sacrifices so life can continue. I just sat and listened to the rooster and let him sing his last song with a listening ear.
