He had crowed every morning of his life. It was his thing.

One day someone said it was too much. Too loud. He pulled it back. Waited. Kept it low.

Then they asked him to stop.

He stood at the fence at dawn with his neck bent and his beak closed.

The sun came up anyway.

The yard stirred. Slow. No one could say what had started it.

He opened his beak.

Nothing came out. Or something did, so quiet nobody caught it.

Same thing.

Moral:
Give away your voice
and you give away the morning.

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