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Morning Song
- University of South Carolina Press
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58 Morning Song The rooster I do not have blinks and struts his glossy history in the pen I want to build beside the garage. “No,” my husband says, “pens belong behind garages.” I want to watch my rooster pick through the day’s minutiae, my neighbors listening for his early call, dreading it the way I tolerate, late afternoons, the baying of their deerhounds. Every day he ruffles feathers. Three young hens in the chicken yard (and the brown leghorn I’ll buy at the fair) admire his hot temper and fleshy comb. They fuss over the right to ignore him. I love roosters, the way I love sonatas and the Song of Solomon. The love I’d feel for this rooster can’t live up to his diligent crowing nor the curve of his spurs, his perfect feet. ...