Half a dozen croaky crows
disturbed the Sunday morning quiet following the cold Belgrave Lantern
Festival, a wonderful night-time solstice celebration. `Nadia’ followed up with
more rooster-like behaviour: calling the
hens with that distinctive `food is here’ call, which worked, albeit rather desultorily.
The Who’s song chimes `I’m a
boy, I’m a boy, but my Mum won’t admit it...’ and hums as we digest the
inconvenient news and look with fresh eyes at our chesty, glossy bird with the
handsome curved tail (but small comb).
(It reminds me of a friend
who thought, for several months, that his son had a cold until his newly broken
voice was pointed out; you can be too close to see the overall picture.)
`Chickie’ is still `his’ best
name – usefully unisex as we adjust – but doesn’t reflect his civilised nature:
crowing at 7.30 is not too early; it’s fine! Last night, to my sorrow, I
watched as our first female Prime Minister was deposed for the Labor cause.
As I see it, the glass
ceiling just got double glazing.
Clever Chickie sniffed the
political winds and decided to crow again this morning – although at 8, still
not at dawn, tempering the rashness. It feels, momentarily, ironic until I
reflect that Chickie is lowest in the pecking order still, crowing and male
chromosomes notwithstanding. That is what
is – faintly - ironic.
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