It was early.
 
       A typically misty September morning on the Madison River in Yellowstone.
 
       The fall chill of the night before was still hard on the land. The dry grasses brushed stiffly on my boots and legs. Cold, but not yet frosted. Maybe in another week. The cold air numbed the nose and sent my breath steaming, while the yellow-butter sun slowly rose above the far hills. It lent light and long shadows, but little warmth to the earth here. I looked with dismay at the garroulous group of photographers clustered on the river bank. By their equipment and style it was obvious that only a few were serious in their morning quest. Mostly they were stragglers, early risers from the nearby campground, with their city casualness trying to shape this wild space.

       Across the river was a small band of elk, about twenty five head - the main morning attraction. A gathering for the fall ritual, the rut of the elk. The time when a bull in his quickening prime, attempts to bring his lineage forward in time with the coming generation. The great elk social event of the year, the intentional communion of the species. Male and females in purposeful assembly, spurred on by the fall's chilling cold in the highlands above.

       All was quiet here now, just the seven point bull and his harem, or just maybe it was all these females in a common agreement as to the best available bull in the neighborhood. Most likely it's a little of both. The males are not generally known to fight to the death for this brief opportunity. They give this up after a few youthful years to conserve energy for the devastating Yellowstone winter that inevitably follows. The clashing antlers in fight are full of the symbolism, but usually lack the blood and guts death struggle of some other species. A fight, a good and dangerous one, but in reality, the bulls hope to keep it a survivable entertainment for the female of the species, and the few humans fortunate enough to see.

       Today all were busy browsing, and we were busy waiting for the hill's shadows to move off the herd. It was useless trying to take pictures in the shade with no contrast. A wise bull's trick of course, keeping his harem in sight, but out of reach of our prying cityfied inquisitiveness. So well exhibited by the bank of cameras along the river, almost like a stationary row of tanks, waiting their turn in the sun. But the elk just continued, busy with their morning feeding, fattening up for the coming winter. The chilling fall was arround to remind them of the future, hanging pregnantly in the air longer and longer, these days that became progressively shorter and shorter. Busy feeding, munching and pulling the grasses, while the river flowed silently, mistily by.

       The only sound seemed to come from the occassional car pulling up at the turnout, and the slamming of doors, as more stopped to gawk at these creatures in an alien world. Otherwise, things were pretty much as if the twenty or so homosapiens were just obtrusive rocks on the river plain. Somewhat noisy, cold handed and footed rocks, burdened with the civilization's paraphernalia of tripods and cameras. Waiting and watching this morning ritual, elk style in the Yellowstone fall. For a very few of us, this was all the morning newspaper we would need that day.

       Then faintly at first, as muffled sounds broke the apparent stillness, there was a quick scurrying of hooves on the forest floor above the river bottom. They grew louder, accelerating to a bounding pace, mixed up with the sounds of snapping branches. It was two young females being herded away by a young, not yet mature bull. Along the top of the ridge they ran and then out of sight arround the bend. Leaving behind the diminishing sounds of their escape.

       It was a case of morning larceny, as we stood almost too cold to care. Just another shadow activity, hidden from the bull feeding on the grass in the flats upstream away from the rise. He paused, briefly lifting his impressive mantled head to listen, and then lowering, returned to feed again.

       The sounds of the escaping hooves quickly grew distant, with only an infrequent snap of a breaking branch filtering through the lodgepole forest. Steam rose and water gurgled along the Madison. The ambient Yellowstone silence had almost returned to its forest stillness, when three young females exploded into action directly across the river from me.

       Kicking. Nipping. Biting. Running up the slope. Turning swiftly on fragile appearing legs straining to gain an advantage - a foothold in the crumbling rise of earth for the next throwing of hooves at the nearest cow. The hooves, thrown again and again, lashing out - flying, slashing and thudding on the sides of their antagonists. Hooves lifting, darting, tearing energy from these small bodies and leaving it in the earth and air. Soon, a fourth joined the group, grabbing for a short nonexistant tail, lunging forward with hooves flailing, racing up the slope of earth, turned, jerked round and slashed at her nearest neighbor.

       Meanwhile, the few feeding nearby raised their heads with a concerned look, and went back to browsing, moving slowly, indifferently away. Away from these few wild females gone temporarily bezerk, haphazardly blood thirsty, lunging after each other in a circle of four. A circling, releasing of energy, tension and purpose. The hooves went on, agents of a divine mystery of intent, slashing out, racing forward, lifting above the cold earth, sixteen hooves never pausing. Darting weapons of the moment. Social enforcers. Hooves....flying hooves....

       But then, as quickly as it had begun, almost by an imperceptible mutually silent assenting nod, they all stopped their charade. Stopped, and raised their eyes up to the battle weary bull now standing thirty feet away at the top of the rise. Looking down on those quivering, shaking bodies trying to turn his attention towards the trail of broken branches. Majestically he stood there with silent eyes watching them breathe deeply, heavily, with eyes and thoughts that demanded action. He returned the stares impassively. He understood his contract with these females, but remained there unmoving. A statue for the present. A feast for their eyes, this half ton mass of nature's regal flesh in the blue shadows among the trees.

       The sun continued rising, a mallard quacked down along the Madison, the feeding elk continued to pull grasses from the river plain. The forest ambience once again invaded, and washed over the senses. Morning quiet returned after this brief chaos of mass and energy. I moved through the grass, and then down the elk worn path along the river bank. Departing, taking no camera laden images along. Leaving only with the burning memory of the early morning elk dance. Wiser now, I hoped. In sharing the common bond of gender, with this bull.