Werefox Vaquero--just a Buckaroo

   
   "Werefox Vaquero--just a Buckaroo"
   
   On the cattle ranch, Max observed Ela in mere Socratic fashion, not even Platonic really, for he was singular--in some ways.  The Buckaroo (Max himself) knew Ela was no simplistic tenderfoot, and had probably been squeezing utters since a child; still, he knew of string-theory, of Jesus as the vine and the believers as the branches, a connected network of a theoretical Otherworld; therefore, maybe her silky, black mane that crowned a radiating female strength was worth a saunter up to; next, an innocent gander, him knowing that most women can put a man through hell, yet it worked both ways, as do wires and cameras run both ways; thus, he would not be swift, yet wise--as the poet Alexander Pope instructed, or so he read on a cereal box once.
   He motioned his ostrich-skinned cowboy boots up to her over the sandy geography, tilted his Stetson, and she smiled immediately, him getting a dumbfounded look on his startled face, as if knowing she had been waiting for him to notice.  Then, she smiled a set of pearly whites, her front tooth chipped, but it only added to her amazing aura, and offered:  "You wanna get some coffee after we wrangle these critters?"
   He reclaimed his suave, at least halfway, felt a bit dizzy, but managed to stick some chaw under his lip; next, smoothly stated:  "Sure darling, but I'm buying."