Abstract

One August evening in a sweated Virginia field that led to a pond I frequented just to hear frogs burble up and see the west sky turn an erotic, apricot orange, I was surrounded by seven four month-old Angus calves who formed a sort of fairy ring around me. They’d grown used to me there at dusk, when I often watched them group, huddle, and hunch, like quarterbacks. Then explode unpredictably in pursuit of the first calf to break rank and flee. Or they might side-butt, or utter-butt, or butt-butt a cow, who would swing her rear end, swart her deft tail, until her tormentors finally galloped off, graceful as fat butterflies. Most usually they’d lock imaginary horns in scattered pairs or in threesomes and go at it..