He resembled a jet fighter taxiing for takeoff; like a cockpit cover, his head would slowly lower, his wings fully extended as though prepared for flight. He would begin his takeoff roll with slow, deliberate strides, undulating from side to side as if alternating jet blasts from the right and left engines caused the machine to move awkwardly. His strides then accelerated smoothly, as he blasted straight ahead down his runway. When his eyes locked onto his target, all engines would fully engage and his body would suddenly blast off the ground, driven by some demon.

At the point of blast off, he would begin his ear-piercing squawks, soon enough to alert his victim but too late for his victim to avoid the attack. During his short, three-second flight, he would begin a metamorphosis: the sleek rigid jet wings turned into powerful, flapping, feathered wings and the pointed fuselage into a small head with evil piercing eyes and a sharp curved beak. He would land, this mass of feathers, wings and talons onto the back of his victim and a cacophony of squawking bird and screaming child followed.

My siblings and I were each, in turn, the rooster's victim on several occasions. The attacks were not infrequent but not so frequent that we were always on constant guard. The chicken pen was just beyond the garden near the barn, an area we passed through dozens of times each day doing our chores or playing. The rooster, unlike his concubine, was free to roam the barnyard and garden. Whenever he had his fill of the hens, he would fly over the top of the pen and scour the garden or attack unsuspecting children.

The attacks became almost ceremonial. Each time the familiar din of squawking and screaming would rise, my mother would spring to the scene with her weapon, a sturdy broom, in hand. She would begin raising the broom like a baseball bat before she arrived at the assault so that she was fully prepared to end the struggle. She stepped into the zone and with one deft swing would hit the rooster and send it tumbling off her child. Cartwheeling over the ground, the mass of feathers, wings and talons would end his squawking slowly, like a phonograph record on a dying turntable.

Mom always comforted, yet chastised, the wounded child for not being more vigilant of the rooster. She would then return her broom to its resting place by the back porch and return to her chores. It wasn't that my mother was uncaring; she simply saw no evident solution to curb the rooster's vicious behavior.

The rooster seemed wise and cunning, almost intelligent. When we watched him, attempting to observe a change in his behavior, he acted arrogant and indifferent, strutting around the garden like god's gift to hens. But, as soon as our guard was down, he would attack. Until that fateful day, he attacked only children.

On that day, Mom had just finished comforting my sister and smoothing her long brown braids which looked like an eggbeater had whipped through them. As she headed back to the house, her broom firmly in hand, we watched in silent horror, frozen and unable to scream, as the cockpit cover lowered and the slow undulating strides accelerated into smooth strides and the mass of feathers, wings and talons went hurtling straight for Mom's back. We stood speechless as Mother quickly and as gracefully as an Indian warrior removing quills from a back-sling, grabbed the rooster with her right hand and pulled it off her back over her left shoulder. She flung the bird to the ground and as the rooster lay there dazed, she brought the broom high over her head and brought it down as hard as she could square onto the rooster who let out one loud squawk.

She raised the broom again and again, bringing it down with greater force each time and each time the broom came down, the grimace on Mother's face from the effort of swinging the broom turned up into a discrete smile. Then another transformation occurred; with each swing, the rooster looked smaller and less frightening and Mother appeared larger and stronger. Her swings became mechanical and she kept beating the bird long after it was dead as though exorcising the demon from the limp mass of feathers and talons.

My siblings and I spent much of the afternoon celebrating the rooster's demise, forgetting our chores and reenacting the death of the rooster over and over, each one of us taking a turn playing Mother. We quickly realized our blunder when we saw her striding through the garden toward us, broom in hand, the cockpit cover slowly lowering.