Roosters

When chicks still occupy the living room in their cardboard box, we listen, trying to identify how many different voices try to crow. And when we count (one, two, three), we gripe, too many roosters. But the day the chicken hawk came and attacked our gawky brown hen, following her under the coop, digging its talons into her hide, these roosters acted as men. Once Daddy’s shout sent the hawk away, empty stomached, each, in turn, walked over with reverence to my little stunned and cowering hen, and stood peacefully over her, creating a protective circle. And stayed like this.