Rooster goes Cockadoodledoo

My nephew’s name is Sky, and I see sky for miles.
I thank the universe for letting me be so close to the clouds.

Sky likes the touch of leaves and sunshine on his pale legs.
To him, the forest is filled with long reeds and stems
to caution and laugh out loud at.

We veer off track, and as I push him through grass,
long, slim skins skim his knee.

His instincts kick in, and he throttles into his seat
in horror or fits of giggles.

There is no in between.

Then we play peek-a-boo through the mesh of the stroller,
the window to his gummy soul.

We’re strolling past a farm, stumbling upon a chicken
that’s actually a rooster. We surprise him,
so he ruffles his neck and straightens.

I’ve never heard a cockadoodledoo in broad daylight,
a mere two feet away from my face before.

My nephew can’t speak yet, but I’m hoping he’s internalized
the sound and syllables, and how off-key the noise
is with expectations.

His eyes pop, and the bird’s eyes pop;
its wattle snaps to attention.

Wordlessly, they exchange thoughts while I sprout feathers.


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