June 25, 2008 – Cloudy, warm. Every morning, around 8 a.m., the roosters and hens gather atop the concrete retaining wall that protects the house from the torrents of water that pour down the hill in the Spring runoff and after storms. It looks to me like a morning meeting, a roll call. Winston Sr. is too old to participate and he sits by the Pig Barn and grumps, crowing in response to his son, Winston Jr., who occupies the forward position of the roll call and leads the hens onward.
  I imagine that there is some sort of a meeting, where bugs, worms, corn is discussed and debated and afterwards, Winston Jr. gives a sign and the industrious patrolling of the roosters and hens begins. They hit the garden, the back pasture, go up and down the road, check out the barns and cow pastures. They are industrious and purposeful, covering a lot of ground, working steadily, resting only to get some shade at mid-day. They pop up here, and everywhere, and Winston Jr. does a good and quiet job. I think at these rolls calls he plans the day. But I could be wrong. Nobody knows what goes on in the small mind of a chicken.