Cautionary Tales

Beyond the field of grazing, gazing cows the great bull has a pasture to himself, monumental, black flanks barely twitching from the swarming flies. Only a few strands of wire separate us—how could I forget my childhood terror, the grownups warning that the old bull near my uncle’s farm would love to chase me, stomp me, gore me if I ever got too close. And so I skirted acres just to keep my distance, peeking through the leaves to see if he still was watching me, waiting for some foolish move— those fierce red eyes, the thunder in the ground— or maybe that was simply nightmares. It’s getting hard to tell, as years themselves keep gaining ground relentlessly, their hot breath on my back, and not a fence in sight.