The Lasso Copyright 2017 by Tony Bowman All Rights Reserved The old man sat in his chair under the apple tree and listened to the cattle wail. The sound was monotonous and loud, though only two of the herd were actually calling: the cow standing at the foot of the steep mountain calling for the newborn calf, and the calf standing in a meadow high above, calling for its mother. The old man sighed. He took a deep breath, which after they had cut away most of his left lung the summer before, was more of a half breath. The cicadas sang in the Appalachian afternoon with the sun beating down. It was cool under the apple tree, the smell of rotten apples wafted up from the grass – the tree never birthed anything bigger than a crab apple, and these tiny apples formed a spongy mat of rot underneath the spreading green canopy, carrion for yellow jackets and ants. He stood up and walked across the damp yard, feeling the apples turn to mush under his feet. The boy lay on the
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