Hens lay eggs

Preceded by much fanfare and trumpeting on the part of the rooster and his young accomplice whose notes sound like a banshee gargling. These arias of the demented stitch the darkest hour to the dawn with admirable though exceedingly irrational regularity or should I say determination. These outpourings are full-throated expressions of a tribe convinced it is their clarion calls that bring back the light. No light, no hen's arse visible and therefore no egg, no life, no omelet with salsa, a kind of sunrise I have enjoyed over the years. That perfect ovoid so strong and yet so fragile at the same time has its own dawn of course. From nesting box to wheel barrow, or recently my neighbor's fishing boat, the egg appears to the garrulous satisfaction of the hen. My neighbor's hens cluck and cackle between ungodly hiccups for long stretches upon producing their prize. Where is the rooster at these moments? Off smoking a cigar with a smug twisted beak of a smile or scratching the compost for a fat wriggler with his terrible claws? Not likely. He is mute, silenced and humbled by the hen's industry but more than that he is struck dumb by her scratchy acapella. He recognizes the voice of creation when he hears it. "I did it! I did it! Whee! Look at ME! I did it! I did it! Look at ME! Heh, heh, heh..." or words to that effect. He stands in the shadows agog at this because in his dark heart he knows he only believes he turned on the light, that it's all an act of faith, one of pure conviction, and nothing more... Why else would he call out so hideously at 4AM? 4:22AM? 5:09AM? 5:17AM? The sun don't come through those trees in the east till near 6AM this time of year. He has no idea. It's all hit or miss with our fanatic chanticleer. He's only good for the red speck in the egg, which frankly I can do without, or the roar of gambling maniacs who throw two of the humiliated creatures together in gladiatoral combat to duke it out, sometimes to the death. Talk of channeling the cock's aggression! Now that's something to crow about. Why even Shakespeare himself and all his glorious poetry started out in a cockpit did he not? Meanwhile our beloved hen has waited shifty eyed on tree branch or roost all night for the decent hour. She it is who wins a place in fable, myth and humor. When she waddled about lickety-split screaming The sky is falling, most of the world believed her...who wouldn't? One listens to such a creature. Who did Jack steal as the giant snored? Not the rooster! Come the break of day it's the illustrious egg we're after, not the announcement that it MIGHT be dawn in say, two hours and 17 minutes from now, again and again, with all the humans abed in the radius counting the interminable seconds thinking there might be at least a chance of a pattern in this madness, but no, the bastard pierces our peace at random. He has no mercy. His news has no substance. She, on the other hand, gives us a sun we can taste, poached, boiled, fried, baked, scrambled, oh, the countless preparations given over to the lovely hen's presentations. She's a gift. He can go to hell and stand at those gates, not mine. He can jolly well scream his gizzard out for the rest of eternity. "I think we got a sinner! Yes I think we got another sinner! [Annoying random pause.] Hey! I think we got a sinner." Meantime, here in heaven, I'll have mine over easy, please.