I suspect the rooster first made its appearance sometime in the pandemic era. Time is hazy, but I’m convinced I first noticed it on one of those days when the creeping tension of the moment, even in a city as laid-back as Miami, was teetering on the edge of becoming too much. I stepped outside to scan the sky, or the pavement, or perhaps to inspect the inside of my car just to kill a few minutes, and instead I found a rooster perched on the lawn.
A rooster, I muttered to myself. Miami is my home, which means roosters are a familiar site, rarely more than a backdrop, often encountered as I drive through the city’s working-class Cuban districts. A visitor from elsewhere might react with astonishment at spotting a rooster in a yard, but in Miami a rooster is as ordinary as a forgettable season for the Dolphins. You glimpse a rooster and register: a rooster. And if your mood happens to be buoyant that day, while still charmed by the city’s quirks, you might even smirk: a rooster, how amusing. How Miami.
Yet the moment felt extraordinary, given the times. The sight of the bird left an impression on me. I was genuinely impressed by the rooster. How peculiar. How Miami. He was a striking specimen—handsome, substantial, clearly well-fed. But where had he come from? Did he slip away from another yard? This was suburban Miami-Dade County, far from the city’s rooster epicenter. I probably wondered aloud: How did you arrive here, rooster? Are you capable of flight? If yes, how far could you go? What drew you to this spot, my friend? You do realize you’re my friend now, right?
I’d seen roosters plenty of times before and had grown up hearing rooster tales through my Cuban-American roots, yet I’d never confronted a real live rooster. Unlike some of my shadier friends who’d become entangled with roosters for questionable reasons, I’d never formed any bond with Miami’s unofficial avian resident.
Miami is a mosaic, with its many faces, but to me Miami-Dade County remains tethered to my parents’ Cuban origins. Like countless others, I was born here because my parents fled Cuba after the bearded regime took power. They escaped, and I now inhabit a place where escape feels woven into daily life. It moves slowly and it moves swiftly, all at once, and even amid the motion it sometimes feels as if no one is really going anywhere. Where would you go when you’ve already arrived in Miami? You’ve made it. Sometimes I sit in my car beneath a palm and loop the same Dylan track three or four times, letting the breeze steal whatever last bit of energy I had on this Wednesday afternoon. I’m slipping away from the grind, from emails, and even the rough draft of this piece. I’m slipping away because the air here, in the land of escapees, makes it easy.
If you’ve ever visited and wondered why the tempo feels different and the streets stay crowded with cars at all hours, it’s because escapees rarely adhere to traditional American time. Some attribute it to tropical energy or a Latin lifestyle, but I simply call it Miami. American friends who relocate here to dodge the Northeast truly grasp the place only when they notice that the asphalt and the capital may say America, yet the vibe and the people—often speaking in Spanglish—shout Miami. That’s why I chuckle at the annual chatter about turning Miami into the country’s next tech hub. Fine, great, but you’d better devise some kind of force field to shield workers from productivity-sapping vibes and the pull of the escapees; otherwise they’ll bail from the office and head to the beach at the first opportunity.
Hey there, rooster, do you know you’re a rooster?
The rooster made appearances at my place now and then, though I mostly spotted him across the street, a few doors down. An elderly Cuban woman would hand out rice to the pigeons, and the rooster would soon join the assemblage. I’d sometimes drive by and marvel at the absurd tableau—a burly, crimson rooster among a dozen pecking pigeons. Other days, when an essay or a book review was giving me trouble, I’d step outside and drift toward the center of the yard. Neighbors or passersby might wonder what I was staring at, but I was simply watching a rooster. I hoped to see whether he was all right or if that gang of pigeons was picking on him. He’s a big rooster, sure, but there are plenty of pigeons around. Maybe he doesn’t even realize he’s a rooster. Hey there, rooster, do you know you’re a rooster?
Miami has done a great job narrativizing “Miami” as the capital of all things vice and debauchery, but out in the suburbs, away from the New York transplants and the influencers and the OnlyFans girls, you’ll find Miami-Dade County. I won’t say that Miami-Dade County, the larger metropolitan area in which the much smaller City of Miami resides, is the real Miami, but that’s what most longtime locals would say. I’ll say that it’s all Miami, but Miami-Dade County is the other Miami.
In Miami-Dade County you’ll discover a calmer version of Miami life. Bad Bunny might be blasting, yet the steady reggaeton rhythm often subsides by midnight unless the weekend has it in full swing; you’ll still find pastel pastries and a cafecito on nearly every corner; Spanglish remains a constant companion; you’ll still encounter people in various states of undress, because, after all, Miami-Dade County remains “Miami,” a place where people lean into the moment. I, for one, own more sleeveless shirts than sleeves. Here, in suburban Miami-Dade County, you’re unlikely to face half a dozen roosters; you’ll mostly contend with one well-behaved rooster.
The rooster woke me up one morning and I asked, What do you want, rooster? Did the pigeons finally gang up on you and kick you out of the crew? I opened the door, and there he was: the rooster. He let loose with his crow. I’ve got nothing for you, I thought. But the rooster kept showing up, so my girlfriend bought him bird feed. He still shows up most mornings, and as soon as I hear him, I think of the lyrics from one of my favorite Dylan songs, “Meet Me in the Morning”: “Little rooster crowin’/ There must be something on his mind.” But the real spectacle happens every afternoon, when he sees my car pull up and sprints to the designated rooster feeding spot in front of the door. I’ve seen it hundreds of times, but a running rooster still cracks me up. If you haven’t seen a running rooster, I recommend that you somehow find your nearest local rooster and catch him mid-sprint.
After I feed him, the rooster will make his rooster sounds and I’ll say, “You doing alright, rooster?” He’ll finish up and run off, until he comes back for more food before the sun goes down. The old lady still feeds him, so the big guy’s eating good. He’s really lucky he landed in this neighborhood with a lovely abuelita and a writer who’s just made him famous. All we can really hope for in this life, after all, is that we end up stranded in a nice place with some decent people. Maybe coming to this place was not an escape at all, but an arrival.
