Banded groundling dragonflies flutter their short lives away with barely-there percussion in my shadow as I gather the valuable leavings of the cows. Why don’t we call it scat, as in the leavings of raccoons? Is it too boring to earn the jazz name, composed as it is of grass and leaves, barely touched in the journey through mouths, stomachs, mouths again and gut? It may not have variety of content, but it is a gallery of different forms: rosettes of flat and lacy fiber, soft, glossy stacks teeming with larvae and their attendants, or dried pucks of shellacked and hollow rind? And don’t forget the mounds of half-termite-hill, half scorned and uneaten dung—left perhaps from day-before-yesterday?—that will add ready-made soil to the concert of compost.