Extracting
This time the steer refuses to bawl. The metal grips beneath his hair, dehorns, exposes brain. I straddle the chute to cauterize his wound, he's released. His cloud of dust infiltrates the cattle. He vanishes
I wish I could. 		I think back to spring and the death of the unborn foal cut from Blaze, the white mare too old for breeding. 
W
   h
     a
        t 
   a 
c
  o
    n
      t
        r
      a
    s
  t!
The dead foal's slick mahogany, on the mare's latent side,
the dash of white on the foal's forelock -- a frosted star shining on entrails speckled with dirt and broken straw.
I laugh.
Dust coats my shoes, and behind me legs stiffen,
and in front of me legs stiffen.