Incantation.

I realized that too many of my posts deal with the sickness and death that I see, but those are the exceptions. Most of the calves are born without any help or intervention. Most of them live. 

This calf is maybe fifteen minutes old. Still wet, he is trying to stand; he's trying to get his legs under him. Falling and flailing repeatedly, he tries to find mom's udder so he can nurse. Mother stands fairly still. She keeps reaching her head back, licking him, cleaning him, drying him off. She fusses over him.

She repeatedly makes this beautiful sound - a quiet but deep, low, resonant hum. Over and over, she chants this rhythmic incantation, a mantra of instinct, affection, and amazement.

Her milk has dropped, her udder swollen with her teats dripping. She stands stock still now while the calf teeters in circles around her legs, leaning on her, searching everywhere with his nose for that first meal. Around and around her he orbits like a small black moon until finally, he finds a teat and latches on, and his tail starts to wag.