Why do roosters crow all day? Learn to decode the crow and what roosters communicate when they crow, from staying away from my hens to wanting chicken treats.
Some chicken enthusiasts don’t particularly care for roosters, especially their penchant for crowing at odd times throughout the day and night. But the reality is that your roo has much to communicate when he belts out his signature cock-a-doodle-do. Here are my lighthearted translations of what this often-jarring sound means, starting with the initial one of the new day.
The Human Just Turned On a Light in Their Coop. It Must Be Morning!
For a variety of reasons, I often arise hours before sunrise, and even if doing so is three or four hours before official sunrise, I can count on our two roosters, Friday and Tom, to launch into a crowing jag the very moment the bedroom light comes on. Their respective coops are about 50 yards behind our bedroom window, and they apparently can detect that little flicker of brightness from the bedside lamp.
Inside, roosters are a bubbling cauldron of testosterone, and every morning, Friday and Tom seemingly compete to see which one can awaken earliest and officially usher in the new day. I don’t know if the duo mistake my light for the first flicker of the rising sun, but if that initial crow is jolting to you, imagine what it’s like for the soundly sleeping hens roosted nearby.
I’m Going to Out-Crow That Rooster a Mile Away
If, for whatever reason, I don’t arise extra early, our roos will erupt with their initial crows when one of the roosters in our rural area belts out his first crow of the day. Or, one of our boys will jump-start those faraway males into vocalizing their morning serenades. It really doesn’t matter who started it. It will happen every day of the year, no matter how cold, hot, windy, snowy, or rainy the forecast is.
Feel Good! I Knew That I Would!
Remember that line from the James Brown song, “I feel good! I knew that I would!” Well, that’s basically what your rooster proclaims many times during the day. Perhaps he has just mated with several of the hens. Maybe he has just performed that amorous shuffle of his and feels the hens judged it a 10. Or, perchance, he has just demonstrated the tidbitting routine with every female rushing to his side, filled with admiration and gratefulness for his everlasting generosity. Aren’t historical accomplishments such as those reason enough for a rumbling, earth-shaking crow?
Stay Away from My Hens!
Friday’s and Tom’s coops adjoin each other, and over the years that my wife, Elaine, and I have raised chickens, we’ve concluded that our birds have no understanding that individuals in one run can’t possibly venture into the other. This belief is further confirmed every time we toss treats into one run and not the other and have birds in the scorned coop anxiously patrolling the perimeter, searching for portals to enter through.
So, it makes sense that Friday and Tom meet periodically at the perimeter, and through their crows – and flying leaps into the fence – warn the potential interloper to “Stay away from my hens!” Since 2010, when we began raising chickens, we’ve had a series of roosters, and some of them have gone nuclear to such a degree against their adjacent adversaries that we installed a plastic garden fence to increase the size of the demilitarized zone, and to lessen the possibility of injuries to the combatants.
However, even that plastic fence didn’t stop one riled roo from launching into the barrier and having one of his spurs become entangled in the mesh, leaving the distraught male hanging partially upside down. The poor fellow could’ve perished in that condition had we not heard his caterwauling and gone to rescue him.
Get Out of My Yard!
To put it as kindly and gently as possible, hens often “act chicken” every time a stranger comes near their run, displaying rank cowardice as they flee into the henhouse or nether reaches of the run. As the defender of all that’s good and holy (in other words: his hens), a rooster simply can’t allow an interloper’s presence to stand.

That’s why when visitors come to our home and ask to see our birds, I politely warn them that their arrival won’t go unnoticed, and repercussions – violent crowing – are sure to occur. Inevitably, after a brief sojourn near the runs, these friends turn around and head toward our house. Proving, from the two roosters’ points of view, that “We ran that lousy sucker off!”
I’ve Got My Eye on You, Buster!
Female visitors or spouse pairs are potential threats to a rooster’s sovereignty, no doubt, but no danger is as serious as a lone human male. I truly believe that roosters can differentiate between the human sexes and instinctively regard the male version as the greater prospective menace.
Our series of roosters seem to have a specific way of dealing with masculine scofflaws. They first tilt their head toward the invader, and after seeming to confirm that, “Yep, that’s a human male,” they walk resolutely toward the side of the fence the man is closest to and blast him into Hades with a volley of crows. It’s as if they’re proclaiming, “I’m the man here!”
Strange Car (or Person) Coming Down the Driveway!
I don’t know whether roosters can teach other roos to react in a certain way against perceived threats, but I do know that our first alpha male, Don (who lived to be 6 years old), was the initial one to begin “red alert” crowing when someone or some vehicle came down our paved driveway.
In all seriousness, I think this rooster trait is admirable. It’s like having a watchdog patrolling the premises. Because of a roo’s outburst, Elaine and I have often been informed of someone strolling down our driveway before we ever heard footsteps. Of course, it’s usually just our grandsons who live next door or a neighbor, but nevertheless, a rooster’s desire to protect kith and kin is welcomed.
Hey, You Passed By Without Giving Us a Treat!
Chickens relish treats, and the most common ones my spouse and I offer our birds are brown bread heels minced into little pieces so every bird can experience the joy of eating something that isn’t a dark yellow pellet. Interestingly, Friday and Tom react very differently when we dole out bread.
The former, who’s 4 years old, seems to understand on some fundamental level that when we bring out the little basket that holds the heels (and that will hold the eggs to be gathered), he and his hens will, sooner or later, receive their share.
Tom, who’s still a cockerel, goes absolutely ballistic if either Elaine or I walk past his run’s entrance while carrying the much-anticipated treat basket. The moment we don’t enter Tom’s coop door, he crows, and with every step we take toward Friday’s fortress, more loud, aggrieved crows follow, seemingly with greater intensity. Indeed, he doesn’t cease until we exit his peer’s abode and head for his.
Let Me Out of This Coop Now!
Sometimes, when snow or rain is occurring rather heavily, I’ll hesitate for a while, hoping the intensity of the precipitation will abate a little. But from a rooster’s point of view, come dawn, no power in the universe should prevent a human from opening the door of the henhouse and releasing its inhabitants.
So, on those inclement days, not long after first light, Friday and Tom commence to crow until they hear me leave the house; then, they ratchet up their chiding to a higher level and begin crowing nonstop. Fascinatingly, when the hens hear or see me coming through the coops’ windows, they vocalize their grievances with what can only be described as angry clucking.
Thus chastened, I skulk to the henhouses, and, apologizing, I explain the reasons for my tardiness. To date, none of my apologies has been accepted.
I’m Scared. I Think I Saw Something Move in the Woods!
At least once a day, every day throughout the year, I hear Friday or Tom vocalizing what I call the panic crow, followed immediately by the hens yelping out the alarm notes of their sex, a sort of high-pitched, nonstop yelp. Although after some 15 years of rearing chickens, Elaine and I should surely realize that the cause for all this distress is probably nothing, we always run out the back door and yell out, “What’s the matter?”

Our interrogation always results in more distressed crows and yelps until one or both of us finally rambles to the run to find the perceived threat. On various occasions, those dangers have included such vile creatures and events as a rabbit nibbling on clover, a butterfly trapped in the run, a bumblebee that bumbled into the netting covering the run, a deer browsing in the yard, and (horror of horrors) on three occasions, an American toad that had somehow entered into the enclosure.
One Last Crowing Spree Before Bedtime
It’s written in “The Handbook for All Good Roosters” that the day must end as it began: with crowing. So, as the sun begins to set in the west, Tom commences to crow, which definitively means that Friday must do the same. The purpose, obviously, is to send all the scourges of Chickenhood into hiding for the night. And it’s also one last time for our two heroes to proclaim that they’re in charge here, and every creature should be well-aware of that fact.
Bruce and Elaine Ingram are the authors of Living the Locavore Lifestyle, a book about hunting, fishing, and gathering food (with recipes). Contact them at BruceIngramOutdoors@Gmail.com.
Originally published as “Decoding the Crow” in the July/August 2024 issue of Grit magazine and regularly vetted for accuracy.