June 28, 2008 – Winston is a tough old bird. I had given him up for lost when I went to bed last night, but this morning, around 5 a.m., I heard a weak, almost wistful crowing and when I went outside a bit later, there he was outside the barn, crowing as he does in the morning. He is quite beat up, but otherwise seems his old self, lustily eating corn, mounting one of the hens, marching around with his usual gravitas. He might be emboldened by the absence of his patricidal son Winston Jr.
  So this worked out, in a strange sort of way. Minnie was still hanging around him but less intensely, Rose no longer cares at all, and life has returned to normal on the farm. I think he’ll be okay, and he will get to live out the rest of his days in dignity and peace. I love having him here, he is part of the soul of the place, and its history. He’s been attacked by a hawk, nearly frozen to death, beaten up by his own son, but there he is, announcing himself as if he were the Grand Marshal in his own parade, a symbol of something good, strong and enduring.