The neighbors' hens

About three months ago, new neighbors moved into the neighborhood. They appear to be Peruvian or Ecuadorian based on their features, but I can't confirm it because they are extremely shy. They barely greet with a smile, change sidewalks, or quicken their pace. All I know is that they moved into the house of the dentist who went to live in Milan with his grandchildren.

Since we are few in the town, gossip spreads quickly, but these people are impossible to decipher. In the bar, they keep asking me if I know anything about my continental compatriots. The strange thing is that two weeks ago, they brought about ten roosters and an equal number of hens to live with them. The birds have turned the dentist's garden into a coop, but what is really serious is that they've been keeping us awake. It seems that one of the roosters doesn't quite grasp the difference between the sun and the moon; it starts crowing around two in the morning. First, it wakes up the other roosters who join in, and then the rest of the neighborhood.

One day it was anecdotal, the next day I complained, on the third day it was annoyance, and on the fourth, I decided to go talk to them. I was emboldened with fury, but upon reaching the door, I saw all the animals digging in the garden looking for worms; they looked lost, not quite understanding what they were doing in that house. I thought that if I complained, they would probably end up in a pot. I felt so sorry for them that I didn't even dare to ring the bell. One of the neighbors came out to the garden because he noticed my presence, and I just looked at the ground and quickly changed sidewalks.

"How funny, I think I'm a chicken too after all," I told myself. I haven't been able to sleep for many days, but it makes me feel better to think that the rooster is better off crowing than floating in a broth.