I worked outside on Sunday doing fall chores. I emptied my rain barrel. I washed and waxed and cleaned my car. I cleaned out the gutters. I picked up all the leaves and filled my compost bins to the top. While outside I heard a sound like a chicken crowing but not exactly. I've been waiting for signs of roosters in these chicks who hatched in July. Crowing is a sign of a rooster. I heard the sound and wondered if a local wild turkey made that sound. Sometimes I'm not too bright. Turkeys gobble. Chickens crow. A bird watcher should know that. Later in the afternoon I heard a feeble crowing again! This time I knew, a rooster is trying out his voice. Which one of you chickens is the rooster? Inquiring minds want to know. Because, by the way, you are doomed. I have no need for roosters. I sneak around the corner of the house to observe. I hear the feeble crow again. One of the whiter Polish chickens is crowing and I can tell by his body language. Earlier, I had thought about naming one of these white Polish Donald Trump but I didn't want to because I didn't want a Donald Trump in my yard. But now, knowing he is off to either a chicken auction or a stew pot, naming his Donald Trump does seem more appropriate.
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