The dust tastes like iron and sweat.
Under the brim of his hat, the cowboy waits—
quiet, steady,
breathing the slow rhythm of the arena.
The bull shifts below him,
a mountain of muscle
coiled tight as a storm before it breaks.
He can feel the heat rise off its back,
the tremor of power waiting to explode.
He lowers his head,
thumb running once along the worn leather rope,
and in a voice rough as the plains he prays—
Lord, keep me centered.
Let me ride clean.
And if I fall, let me walk away.
Everything outside the chute dissolves—
the announcer’s voice,
the restless hum of the crowd,
the summer air so heavy it feels alive.
All that remains is the sound
of his own breath
and the pulse of the animal beneath him.
He nods.
Metal scrapes.
The gate swings wide.
The world detonates.
Eight seconds of violence and balance,
eight seconds of gravity forgotten,
of man and beast locked in an argument
older than language itself.
The bull twists, rears, drops,
the ground a blur beneath pounding hooves.
The cowboy moves with it, not on it—
part instinct, part defiance.
Every muscle screaming to hold,
every thought reduced to one word: stay.
For an instant—
a flicker between heartbeats—
they move together,
not enemies, not master and servant,
but equals bound by fury and will.
Then it ends.
The buzzer cuts through the roar.
He lets go.
The ground rushes up and takes him.
Dust rises.
The bull stands for a moment,
snorts, then walks away
as if nothing happened.
The cowboy pulls himself to his knees,
hands trembling,
heart still tangled in the chaos he just rode.
He tips his hat toward the beast—
a silent acknowledgment
between those who have shared
the edge of control and survived it.
Eight seconds.
That’s all.
But for those who’ve lived it,
it’s a lifetime stretched across the back
of something wild enough
to remind you what being alive means.
