The Rooster's Call

At that time, when the sky changes out of her glistening black dress and takes the violet robe, the one with roses on the hem, in hand; that is when the rooster crows. Before the sun floods the lands to the east with light, before the mountains, acting like dams to the bright, burst;
when that light pours across the drenched passes and floods our valley with the first hint of warmth, of glow and goodness, by then the solitary rooster will have called and called in vain. Nothing will answer, nothing but the occasional burdenous rasp of rubber on night-rested streets, rubber soles of metal boxes that carry the rooster-deaf to no where.
Then, when this field of flowers sings, flowers with wings, flowers that fly and warble; filling the air with their song and themselves, the rooster will have shouted loud his own existence.
At that time, before the spider webs, draped with dew and visible, lose their finery and disappear; the rooster will have crowed and quieted.
With the sun high on the horizon and if it is Sunday, the nine o'clock bell of the church will call instead. The rooster's peal forgotten and everyone at work, I will continue to wonder: where does that rooster live?