Kuku

White and shiny, chest out, strut: It is the cockerel. He moves around pround, a gentleman at the center of his world. Step by step he wanders around the fields free. A worm. A left-over of the Christmas dinner. He pecks hinter and yon, sharp, focusing on a fat insect. The young hens follow him fascinated. A dark, a red, and a blond one. They run after his indifference, fighting for getting the first row. They chat without intermission up to losing the breath, sharing the news of the moment...

... "The Brown one disappeared yesterday... I bet she went to brood! She found a nice nest in the forest and we will see her again in one month, with her following of chicks"...

... "The comer is so boring... Yes, exactly, the ugly one, without feathers on the neck... anyway, she is about to have her eggs and she is screeching all the time because she wants to mix them with mines... such a good-off!"...

... "Oh poor thing... The Black one brooded a dozen of eggs but only three effectively etched... the hawk has already taken two of them, so she has remained with only one chick... but you should see how sweet it is!"...

The older hens are more quiet. They brood in a corner of the house, or in a hole hidden between the thorns of a bush. The mothers cluck wandering around with their children, only worried about their well-being. They jump around looking for a just cultivated field, an anthill of proteins, a dirty pan. They even dare to enter in the houses, frisking on the coach and suprising with their cackling the dozen off mistress. The chicks, if they survive, will grow up strong and healthy. Wild, active, quick. Very nice. Up to the next Christmas they will scamper free around the field, greating the coming mornings with their singing.