Death and the Bull

Say there was this bull. This bull that parlays in its pasture. Doesn’t bother anyone. Onlookers make it curious. Upon approach they get scared and back away. It saunters into the grasses.

There is a pen around this bull. A corral to keep it in place. Because it does so, the bold frantically wave red scarves to get its attention. To get a reaction. But the red is not the problem. Bulls are colorblind. It’s the foolish gestures, the jumping, the yelling that make it draw forward. Sending a huff of air through it’s nose. Centering it’s eyes. To be a target is to offer yourself up as one. It wasn’t looking for you.

This bull waits alone. Has time to contemplate the small stuff. Has walked every inch of the pasture. Perusing the earth beneath. But each moment something changes. For every breeze, there is a seed descending to new ground. For every rainfall, there is new mud. For every dry, sun drenched day, there is growth, new prints, covered paths, traveling ants, and, eventually, dust.

Say there was this bull.

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