Perhaps The Finest Rooster That Ever Did Live

I did not want to open the door to the hen house this morning.
I guess I knew.
And yes, there he was, head in the corner, stretched out in all of his feathery glory, still as could be.

I waited a little while to bury him. Had some coffee. Let the other birds out, threw them some scratch.

I had thought, you know, to bury him in the little yard of my office next to Pearl and Miss Sharon but I decided that no, I wanted him in the front yard where his spirit could watch over us the way he watched over his hens. It seemed important to me. So I did it.

I found a soft enough spot right by the blooming wild azalea and I dug a hole.

I carried his body respectfully from where it rested and laid it in the ground. I did not wrap him in anything. His feathers were glory and gravedress enough.

I covered him up. I planted a fern over him and a bit of firespike. I will think of his gorgeous red comb and wattle when it blooms in the fall. 

So. It is done.

Not to get all Biblical and shit but it is. 

I have no idea why I'm so goddamned upset. 

But I am.