  On the mountain peak, called “Going-To-The-Sun,” I saw the rooster that no storm can tame, The center of the sun was but his eye, His comb was but the sun rays and the flame. There in the Glacier Park, above white glaciers, There, above Montana and the west, He crowed and called his boast around the world, Emotion shook his red embroidered vest. There is humor in the very biggest rooster, But even more magnificence than fun. I laugh because he acted like a rooster, I am solemn, for he was the biggest one. I like a rooster or a turkey gobbler, I like their forthright impudence at times. They are neither larks, nor trilling nightingales, And yet they always sing in splendid rhymes. When I heard the vast bird of the sunrise crying, The world held not one inch of silly prose. Any rooster is a flowerlike fowl, And this one was a crimson Yankee rose. |
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