Fowl Play

I’m not sure where to go.

Our homestay host said turn left. So I do.

It’s early, the boys are slumbering, and I need to eat before zooming into the day.

Gotta be a pho place around here

I get maybe 20 meters down the lane when I see the man and his rooster.

And reader, let me tell you

This man knows how to care for a rooster.

The yard is not atypical. Fenced off with wire, plenty of dirt and chicken droppings decomposing together in a poopy stew. A collection of chickens peck and scritch their way around the yard. An unassuming home, breezeway housing a couple bikes and drying laundry.

So, business as usual, nothing much to see here.

Until I see him, and him.

He’s crouched down, squatting in front of some sort of fowl.

Is that a turkey?

A rooster?

Can’t be.

I’m really not sure what to call it until he lets it go. But before he does, I notice him tending with utmost care to his fowl feathered friend. Picking a nit here, smoothing a ruffled feather there.

The two of them sit, oblivious to the world.

One, the most intent, present caregiver.

There’s a lot of love there.

The other, a trusting, loved, meditative soul.

I don’t know much about rooster care. Do all rooster owners spend the morning meticulously hand grooming?

If so, I need to know more.

This is a relationship that has been cultivated, nurtured. These two know each other. And I feel as though I’ve stumbled into a morning ritual, an intruder who can’t help but stare.

I continue down the lane and sneak a look back over my shoulder as the groomsman continues his work. And make a mental note to try to swing by tomorrow.

I’ve still got questions.