There were three cows sitting out in the field, about two hundred yards off, under the shade of a nearby oak tree, the only tree growing in the apparently limitless field.
Our feet moved slowly, probing across the ground in careful circles, not eager to stumble upon any nesting serpents. Our eyes were on the distant cows, who with each hesitant step grew closer, so much so that now we could both clearly distinguish a subtle grunt of breath coming from their massive bodies. My compatriot, a shade older than myself at twenty-eight looked at me nervously, in his peculiar glance that seemed eternally amused, despite the severity of the situation.
The dark was a sort of complete yet taunting shade that made shapes visible but indistinguishable.
When the ground began to rumble, we could see a blacker region in the great surrounding black region coming our way.
A hushing grunt of breath as the bull strafed us at what seemed like five feet but was probably closer to twenty.
We decided to leave the field as fast as we could, forgetting our former fear of serpents.
The paltry bounty of our great mid-night hunt was a singular, pathetic, two-day-old cap. We felt like kings when we stumbled upon it. By the time we were home, it was already brown and gooey.
I tossed it in the back yard and every time it rained after that, I would check the spot to see if a troupe of king-makers had sprung through the peat in the middle of the night.
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