There’s a film of dried milk crusted across the backs of my hands, down my forearms and the tops of my thighs, sun dried and getting sweeter as it sits. It’s similar to the way grass smells when it’s been drawn out by the hot summer sun, but richer. “Let Him Fly” by Patty Griffin is moving through my earphones with such resonance, but our sweet bull calf didn’t make it. I feel defeated, sitting here wafting in the familiar scent of bottled milk and powdered electrolytes, which I spent my morning feeding him in desperation. The smell now reminds me of death, of loss. At lunch, my partner Grant and I sit quietly. The weight of what we’d just witnessed is heavy in our bodies. Feet up on the picnic table, we’re tired, spent. This work is hard. In all my emotions, I also sense peace. I share this, as we look out over the pasture just beyond our stoop, where the grass is growing drier with each passing day. The cows meander along fence lines in anticipation of their next grazing rotation, …