It was a sun drenched Sunday morning. The glowing orb in the east was already well started on its day's march through the sky, drilling rays of light down upon the meadow, creek, and barn, promising a toasty day.
Hearing a vehicle rolling in the lane, chickens were gathering round their door, discussing what delicacy the human would be bringing today in exchange for their eggs. Aged lasagna that survived the trucker's most recent west coast trip? Baked oatmeal that likewise no longer held human appeal? Watermelon rinds with a bit of red left upon them? Maybe even fuzzy blueberries.
The white feathered rooster strutted among them, saying nonsensical things, just making enough noise to remind all hearers he was there and in charge and most definitely not accepting any challenges.
Abruptly, he interrupted his monologue with a warning deep in his throat. The sense of urgency it conveyed was not in doubt, at all. All twenty-one hens (one was already on the nest) instantly dived for the small doorway leading into their section of the barn. Two at a time jamming the doorway, some flapping beak first into the wall, squawking mindless frightened warnings of their own.
There were no questions, no hesitations, no backward glances. The rooster has warned; we go first and learn details later.
The human stopped, shading her eyes against the brilliant rays, looking eastward and down the small hill. A cluster of trees, among them one mostly dead, its bare limbs reaching to the sky like scrawny claws. At the very top, a motionless shape, silhouetted black and menacing against the morning sky. Was it a hawk? An eagle? No white head, so a hawk it is.
The rooster had known he was there. Did he see, or just sense the presence? Did he not understand he and his ladies were safe within their wire enclosure? Still, the alarm sounded automatically, instinctively.
And then a shift of the dark bird's perch, morning breeze ruffling feathers. An eerie scream ripped into the calm of the morning. A harsh call echoing round the meadow, scraping its way out of the bird's throat. This should spark terror into the heart of any feathered folk.
This time though, no response from the hens. Or the rooster. Surely they heard. Is not this scream much more inspiring of fear than the rooster's warning?
She pondered this as she flicked a dish of scraps into the enclosure for the hens to dive after, then discuss contentedly as they digested. She thought of the rooster's role in the flock as she refilled water buckets and gathered eggs contributed by the early risers.
The hens are not conditioned to look out for their own safety. To scratch and peck, to compete for choice morsels, yes. To lay an egg every day. But the rooster, for all his preening and posing, was the guardian. His eye was turned toward the hill, the tree, where the hawk found his vantage point.
It wasn't noise and screaming that caused his fear and his flock's run for safety. It was the silence, the shadow, the stealthy darkness against a bright morning sky. The instinctive knowing when time was ripe for danger.
The hens didn't need to know that. They only needed to understand one thing - respond without question to the rooster's throaty warning for safety. That was enough.
