No Steps

The young bull dropped his head and stared. Only a wispy wire—electrified—kept us apart. That, and two long rows of asparagus. An ancient apple tree blossomed prodigally pink and white. The muddy path sucked at my shoe, but I reached the granite step, and knocked at the rickety porch door. Deep in the house a dog began to bark. I had prepared my Heart Fund speech, and the first word—When—was on my tongue. I heard no steps—only the breeze riffling the tender poplar leaves, and a random, meditative moo behind me. . . . Relieved, I turned back to the car, passing once more under the bull’s judicial eye. . . . Everything was intact: the canister, still far too light and mute, and metal boutonnières where they began— in a zip-lock plastic sandwich bag.