This is a sanctuary.

Not just of shelter, but of reckoning.

Every rooster here is a survivor of a system that saw no use for him.

Born into commodification, condemned by capitalism, erased by silence.

I do not keep hens here.

Not because I don’t value them—

but because this space is for those who are never loved, never chosen, never even given a chance to live.

This house stands as a monument to the cull.

To the billions of baby roosters killed for the crime of being male.

To the noise deemed too loud.

To the bodies considered too many.

To the lives that were not deemed profitable.

This is not just a coop.

This is resistance.

Each crow is a testament to life.

Each feather, a quiet act of defiance.

Each sunrise, a ritual of survival.

They told us these birds were aggressive.

We call them protectors.

They told us they were useless.

We call them sacred.

Here, they are not waste.

They are not surplus.

They are not byproducts.

Here, they are enough.