I was washing up at the kitchen window when I glimpsed
him running slick as a biker. I pulled the drawer hiding the binos (Swarowski
42mm optic lens, mag x 8.5) kept for such sightings, and caught him up. Big
boy, dark bodied with a grizzled face,head high balancing a full twelve points
parallel with his spine so that his head is raised in the way that we call
proud, nostrils high to catch the scent of females or rivals, He ran looking to
fight, only stopping to piss his presence on an obstacle: or rather to 'fxxx' I
corrected myself, and then wondered if he knew the impulses separately,
summoned by the madness drumming in his blood. He arrived at a fence and turned
toward a herd of highland cows grazing the bog grass on my side of the river,
trotted forward head high before lifting over the fence and passed into the
birches. I returned to the neglected dishes; a yellow cow watched from the
river bank long after he'd gone.. ;
posted by Roy Tylden-Wright
Bunkhouse at the Roundhouse
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