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The bull made the perfect sound. It started as a moo—a nasal, cranium-rattling siren of a sound—and ended as a growl—a throaty, gut-inspired mushroom of noise. It was just what I needed.

I’d pulled over onto the side of the highway opposite the field to look at a tree full of what I first thought were blooms, then realized were berries or fruit of some kind.

I recognized the tree, ‘though don’t know the name. It puts out yellow or coral blooms in the spring. But, it was the bull that said it all. Was he complaining about those unfashionable earrings he has to wear? Did his tummy ache? Was he wanting more room to roam—feeling stifled and bored with his companions…

or wanting one of the female persuasion?

For a moment the guy made me smile. After my morning of sharp disappointments and frustrations, the moo and the growl said it all.

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Ellen Hamilton