A Song Sung Free

The big bird is the loudest on my farm.  He is rooster, hear him cockadoodle-do.  He is drawing in the morning air and thrusting out his morning song.  I like it. 

He has to.  Some instinct laid within his chest from the beginning assures that he will sing it up every morning where ever he is, whatever he is doing. I never doubt that he will sing.  "Someone" else chose for him to sing, and he ever will.

 But me, I am higher than him, created in a different order, from a different print.  Something distinct was laid within my chest from the beginning and I know it-- I can feel it. I can wield it, this something higher than instinct, this something royal and right, this autonomy tucked inside of me.  I am free to sing or not to. 


 But he is warming me up to the morning. Cockadoodle-do. He is unbolting a door, stirring up the choice in me.  The morning air seems delicious coming up through his jolly throat. But

let the lady-farmer sing a better song than him. Let morning air breath a higher word from me.  Let my choice charge the air with praise. Liberty makes my song so different than his, and heaven knows the sound of a song sung free.