When the Rooster Doesn't Crow at Dawn

The silence at night has become a black hole since our neighborly rooster has taken up residence elsewhere.

Wake up in the wee hours and it sounds as if the planet has stopped spinning; adrift in a netherworld between light and shadow, between sound and stillness, between thought and dream, where the subconscious is turned upside down and when you step out of your bed your feet land on a floating surface devoid of purchase.

At least that's the feeling.

The whole shebang -- from the quarantine wars to the topsy-turvy leadership at the helm -- would make the late, great Rod Serling raise a dark eyebrow and turn the corner of his mouth into a smug, sardonic smile.

Ladies and gentlemen, enter, if you will, The Year 2020.

The rooster who found a home in the fragrant Puakenikeni tree below our window has moved on, flown the coop. The 2:30 am cocka-doodle-do is no longer a lone cry in the night.

"Maybe chickens are nomadic," I offer.

"Maybe the Chicken Lady took care of him," Barbara replies.

One of the frequently discussed theories around here is that she relocates the roosters to control the prolific chicken population.

"Where does she take them?" I ask.

"I heard that she takes the roosters to the old Club Med ruins above the bay."

Concrete wall remains of Club Med Resort

Those ruins, concrete bulwarks tangled in vines, are found along a little-traveled path to a small beach mostly swallowed up by ironwood trees and their woody branches. It is also near the site of the once famed, now disappeared Hanalei Plantation resort.

If one believes in spirits of the past, perhaps ancestors who rued the oncoming of tourists during the Fifties and Sixties, this would seem a likely place for ghosts.

The path is one of our walking trails where we're more likely to see a lone surfer carrying a board or a local fisherman looking for quiet spot from which to throw his net.

"I haven't seen many chickens there,"I say.

"That is strange," she agrees.

"Maybe someone is smuggling roosters into the hills for cockfighting?"

We both look at each other without words, blank eyed, not wanting to go there.

This morning while sipping my first cup of coffee I see the familiar black-brown-and-white rooster strutting like he owns the place near our front door and the Puakenikeni tree.

I couldn't have been dreaming.