Turns out, the old farmer down the road had a rogue rooster with a broken internal clock. "He’s not confused," the farmer said, spitting tobacco into a coffee can. "He’s crowing at his own midnight. Some birds just refuse to wait for dawn."
So here’s to the off-schedule crowers. The ones who sing before the sun agrees. Maybe you’re not early. Maybe you’re not late. Maybe you’re just keeping time that no one else understands. midnight crowing
I first heard it three summers ago, at 12:47 AM, when the air was thick and still. A single, sharp crow. Then silence. I told myself it was a dream. But the next night, same time. And the next. Turns out, the old farmer down the road