A Small Fable After the Move

After we moved,

my mother and I,

to a different place

under a different sky,

we noticed something curious there:

no chaos — just patterns.

Only animals lived among the people,

and some people behaved like animals.

Dogs barked like dogs.

Roosters crowed as roosters do.

Nothing supernatural —

just nature being honest.

I asked my mother, quietly,

as one asks questions that already know the answer:

“Mother,

who is the father of this dog?”

She looked once.

No drama. No pause.

And said:

“A dog.”

Later,

when the rooster climbed the roof

to announce himself king of the morning,

I asked again:

“And who is the father of this rooster?”

She smiled — not kindly, not cruelly.

Just precisely.

“A deer.”

And suddenly the noise made sense.

The barking.

The crowing.

The confidence without weight.

Because offspring don’t choose their origins.

They only repeat them — loudly.

And in that place,

among beasts and people alike,

we learned a simple rule:

Do not argue with a rooster

about silence.

Do not expect depth

from borrowed antlers.

We did not stay to teach them.

We only named things correctly —

and moved on.