It is a well-known fact that daylight savings is stupid. It doesn’t help farmers, and we aren’t on war-time rationing. For most people, other than a severe need for extra coffee and an hour swearing at the clock, daylight savings causes no lasting stress.
Hank isn’t most people.
That bit about farmers? The reason everyone thinks we have daylight savings? Yeah, it’s bullshit. I mean, think about it. Do cows understand time? No. Do they care if you’re an hour late to milk them? Damn straight they care. Which is why daylight savings doesn’t help farmers.
The human, civilized part of Hank’s mind understood daylight savings. Other than the coffee issue, he didn’t mind it. As a child, he even liked it, if only because he was the only one in his class who remembered. Once the change came over him, daylight savings became an issue.
Spring’s not so bad. He stares longer at the moon than usual, all his clocks an hour ahead of where they were for the previous full moon. Maybe it’s the clock, maybe it’s instinct, but he stares longer than usual. He still ends up outside, mouth full of insects. The sun rises later than before. So when he calls out, “Wake the fuck up!” his neighbor yells less than usual. The kids are already awake, sure, but by now, they know the f-word. Thanks to Hank. (He’s a little proud of that, even though he shouldn’t be.)
He needs more coffee the next day, but that’s fine. (Yes, there’s a shit ton of sugar and milk in his coffee. If you had to worry about drowning out the taste of bugs, you’d put stuff in your coffee too.)
Fall, though. That’s a bitch.
He squirms on his chair for only a few minutes before being drawn outside. The newly cool air eats into him — of course he didn’t remember to put on a jacket. Turns out, pecking can generate lots of body heat if done vigorously enough. Hank’s nose and lips and tongue are soon sore from being too enthusiastic, but he can’t stop himself. At least most of the bugs are dead. Dead bugs don’t wiggle as they go down his throat.
The moon seems brighter than usual, and plenty of clucks escape Hank. His arms press against his side, bent at the elbow. He isn’t doing chicken wings, honest. Okay, maybe he is, but it’s only to keep warm. Damn it, even a rooster should want to go briefly back inside for a jacket, right?
Apparently not. He just quickens his steps around the backyard, while being as deliberate as usual.
The sky begins to lighten. Hank sighs as he stares at it. When he spies the first hint of pink, he puffs out his chest. “Wake the fuck up!”
“Die, you bastard!” Next door, something slams loudly.
The moon is still up. Maybe Hank’s human instincts are stronger now, or maybe roosters do have some common sense. Whatever the reason, he retreats into the house and locks the doors before his neighbor can strangle him for waking people even earlier than usual.
