A windy afternoon on a clear day in spring. The young bull is all muscle and steaming breath. And we know what is to follow, the twenty minutes of ritual—nicking him on the neck to lower his head, the senseless play of cloth to confuse his charge, the watching—does he plunge straight or favor one horn?

Between the bull and the sun comes the warm shadow of horse and rider, and it begins . . . I can see plainly that the bull is looking for a way out.

Of course, there is none.

the day's first bull
trots into the ring . . .
snow on the mountains