Wild Motherhood

The rain that morning was more suggestion than concern. A fine mist sat in the valley, took the hills down to soft grey shapes, and never threatened to soak the gear or send me back to the car. It’s the rain you hope for.

I’d driven in from Silver Gate at first light and picked the group up from the road — cows and calves, no bulls anywhere near them. I parked, walked out into the viewing area, and settled thirty or forty yards off, close enough to fill a frame at 170mm and far enough to not be part of their morning.

Wet sage, wet grass, a hillside going out of focus in the drizzle behind them. One of the calves was nursing — still red, a red dog in the shorthand people use up there — and small enough to vanish almost entirely underneath her when it tucked in.

She let it feed and kept her head up the whole time, facing me across the sage, unhurried about it. Not alarmed, not moving, just keeping track of where I was.