“Women!” he quietly fumes. The oversized ego-driven rooster, herald of the morn, king of the roost, bolstered by rock solid boulders on both sides of his stalwart stance, is suddenly less sure-footed. An average size hen, oblivious and consumed in her own quiet pursuit, unknowingly effects her teasing posture to the big brooding bird. Ironically, here is the consummate farmyard domestic female quite naturally long in attendance of her separate industry, hardly at the round the clock beck and call of the boys. A new day is rising in this scene; beneath an overhead moving front, the winds are changing around this long-standing traditional farm. There are farmers, farmers’ wives and the many who’ve moved from the farms, long since responding to callings uncontained in silos or barns or furrowed fields. Nature always calls, but nature calls from many directions for both “women” and men. And so, it has always been on the farm and well beyond.