Cock o' the Walk

The rooster in question pauses to survey the land before proceeding into the pasture.

One of the younger roosters, he is about two years old now, keeps tabs on the hens that roost near the barn. Kimberly hen, the surviving Buff Orpington hen from a lot we picked up nearly three years ago now; one or two of the Jersey Black hens; and the scruffy, scrappy mixed-breed hen that raised the only brood that made it last year comprise this fellow's flock.

At dusk, the lot of them settle in and around the hay trough in the home pasture, and on the tree branches beside it. I am happier when they roost in the tree branches because I fail to appreciate hen poop in the hay; however, they tend to settle as they wish, without thinking to consult me about my preferences.

I enjoy watching the roosters tend to their little bands of hens. Together the rooster and his hens will roam the farm from the edge of the highway back to behind the barn in the course of a day. Pecking and scratching, they turn the earth tirelessly seeking the choicest tidbits the earth has to offer. Each unit is industrious independently of the other flocks.