Green pasture on fertile farmland. Smells like hay and the stink of manure. There is a brown bull grazing behind a wooden fence that runs the perimeter of the farm alongside the road. He raises his horned head and glances around, his big eyeballs lazily scanning side to side, while his weary tail sways back and forth, swatting flies away from his hindquarters. Beyond the birds chirping and the tractor motor humming, there is the bleating of sheep and pigs. The barking of a dog signifies lunchtime. A triangle dings in the distance, and the tractor turns off. Distant voices of men pick up as start to head towards the house. The bull watches them, continuing to graze.
The men’s boots are caked in mud, leftover from the rain the night before. They wash up before sitting down to a beautifully set table of chicken, potatoes, biscuits, and cornbread. Everything is simple and smells heavenly. The farmhands use their calloused hands to pass plates around and help themselves, the heat of the bowls warming their dampness.
The cows have been milked, seeds have been planted, pigs have been fed. The lone bull can be seen from the kitchen window, right at the sink. Still grazing, still looking, still wondering what’ll happen to him. He had been recently bought to breed with the cows, but the vet believes he may be fertile. The tests are still pending. What to do with such a beast? What shall his purpose be now when the farmers spent all that money on his use?