Respect for a weather vane.

For eighty years, give or take, that hip roof barn with weathered wood
had seen its share, for heaven’s sake, of wind and rain and yet it stood
on solid rock, both deep and sure; bedrock fixed in earth’s tight vice,
and stained blood red, years to endure, its whole life painted all but thrice.

Its corn crib woke to each sunrise, stalls westward watched sun’s daily death,
large wooden doors, north south endwise, invite in nature’s gentle breath.
Stalwart shelter, hiding place, for mice and kittens, ox and horse
against dark foes, harsh storms and ice, and all of nature’s cruelest force.

On highest point, ‘top roof of tin, black rooster on black arrow perched,
warning withal, without, within, of looming storm his keen eye searched.
I mocked that rooster, "job so vain, tossed to-and-fro by every wind",
"Respect!" said farmer, "beloved vane does not deserve reproach. Rescind!"

"For while we hide and turn our backs from weather cruel in all her forms,
brave rooster stands, as lightning cracks; of love he turns to face the storm.
Warning all, without, within, of looming doom, he testifies
Fear God, not storm; look past the front. This temporal storm occludes fair skies."