From the corral I hear the does whining. Trotting in circles, Jill runs from Elijah, Colleen from Curly, round and round. The other does lay in the sun away from the barn, they don’t lift their heads. It is a sick sound, a squeal, a cry, a sort of yelp that the does let out, these younger ones who don’t want to be mounted. Elijah gives chase, lowering his curled horns almost grabbing her back hooves. I turn away and down the lane. I can not help sympathizing with the does. I do not take their trotted circles for coyness, these girls really don’t want it. I wish we had a buck pen set up so the two ole bastards could stare at each other all day, pissing on themselves and each other. There is no smell like a buck in rut.
The baby is distracted by a bird, she does not notice the commotion. The dogs lay in the shade. Our neighbors plant young cottonwoods- slightly yellow with the fall- along the fence line. I am embarrassed they can hear the primal grunting and crying from the pen.