Rusty.
The rooster that could dream, but not sleep.


Rusty the rooster lived at the time when humans started to learn how to take care of his kind; for useful purposes.
Rusty suffered of insomnia. Tired of ruffling his feathers all night, he decided to go for a walk
in the still dark early morning. Pondering about his troubles, he thought: Wouldn't be wonderful if it
would be daytime already?. If only that lazy ball of fire would arise from its sleep.
You see, humans are not the only ones to find relief in blaming others for their sufferings. Any way, let's continue with the story.
Half conscience of it, he jumped to the fence's post and with a scratchy voice crowed:
COCK – A – DOODLE – DO !!!.
Which loosely, in chicken language means: Wake up, you lazy ball of fire!!!.
Not short of when he said that, some bright rays of light started to merge out at the distance. And the sun's face to show.
With amazement in his beak, he thought. I have woke it with my voice. The ball of fire awoke
at my command.
Pride in chest, to his roosty business, off the fence he went.
Next day, at the same hour, he crowed again. And to his surprise, the sun in front of him started
to grow.
This just proves it. Intelligently he reasoned. That lazy ball of fire obeys my voice command.
Not gone the week was when the news of his wondrous power every chicken knew. Fame bestowed at his roosty persona, was not a rumor. And by the end of two weeks, a whole ritual he was used to perform. Where he would crow and dance a little bit, and crow a little more. As surely as he was a rooster on a post, the sun always would arise of its stupor. Gone were the memories of time of old, new memories proved that certainly the sun would not come from sleep, without the rooster deeds.
One summer solstice morning, our most important Rusty, reasoning again we found.
If I command the ball in the sky to raise now, we would have more day light to enjoy, to
go our marry way around. And so, the ritual performed. Rooster of roosters, what marvel magic your voice carry, the sun his face not more buried.
As a matter of pride, everyday, earlier and earlier, the rooster at the post we could find.
Summer almost gone, an earlier rain come.
Today I would get wet, but my duty can't neglect. With faith in his destiny, his mission
out side performed. And wet he got, up to the little feathers inside.
By middle day, obvious was, that talk he could not.
Terror, and horror now set, tomorrow the sun would not rise, after today's sunset.
A thousand accounts of misfortune, upon our lives will come
if tomorrow somehow, his command he will not pronounce.
Sacrifice of sacrifices we must do, they said. Give him some eggs to eat,
to clear throat and beak.
At length, all night, continued the debate. Not short of noise and distress. When a farmer's hand
inside the chicken coop appears. Grabbed by his neck , Rusty we found, almost choked with tears.
Rusty the rooster his end met, when the farmer, tired of these early crows, his head chopped off,
before the sun arose.
Good rid off this rooster will be, and good feast mid-day to be. Farmer said.
And so, we end, with Roasted Rusty Rooster in a plate laying down; in the middle of a table banquet; outside in the yard; in an oddly enough, pleasant sunny day, at the end of summer days. The End.


The moral of the story:
Before you think you can change the temperature of the whole world, you must learn how to
crow COCK – A – DOODLE – DO !!!. in rooter language, and make the sun appear.