Hound Dogs


Noon and Ian’s killed his quota, a five year old brown bear under cover in the truck. He stops at mount Guitar-on, ready drench in its waterfalls.


Hot with capability, hungry for more Nature.


The scent of sweet apricot drifts through the pines. His dogs slink off; follow their noses into the wood. In the water a young woman is swimming.


He stalks her, gives her one of his high testosterone hellos. Running The Bulls


An old man on his way, pain in his hip, but one step follows the other. Los Torros some children shout, Los Torros to the slaughter. Hands for horns, they run rings around him, finish their game with a stick. Then bow to the seats reserved for heroes of past Corrida.


A bell tolls and the people run for cover, crowd behind the barricades. Yip, Yip, run straight Los Torros, Los Torros do not fear slaughter. Blow and bellow, a boiled eye’s centre, the stink, then a clatter and trip. Stunned, a big-calf stands, turns four ways, and trots on to the arena.


On the sand a young man practices his moves like a dancer. Los Torros the chant grows from the street Los Torros, Los Torros.


D id Fse av otr Mog ran


21


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