There’s a rooster on the loose at work. I’ve seen him.
I slowed my car and rolled down the window next to him. His emerald feathers glittered, his comb flopped on his handsome head like a pompadour.
He’s the Elvis Pressley of farm animals – in a business park.
If he were a she – if the rooster were a hen – we might have missed her. She’d cluck by, head down in search of grain. She’d settle on a nest to tend to eggs rather than preen roadside, she of understated earth-colored plumage. It reveals the nature of nature.