“Luck and life in pronghorn country” – An Essay by Nina McConigley

Technically, we’re both wrong: They are pronghorns — “speedgoats,” as my husband calls them. It’s late summer, and spindly-legged baby pronghorns graze next to their mothers. They are learning the land, and I imagine they, too, are being corrected. Our dog, a spaniel mix, every so often peels forward at top speed, chasing after a jackrabbit that is almost as big as he is. The flash of the rabbit’s white rump and the futile chase make my daughter shout with glee. I call him back, leashing him and telling him to stop harassing the wildlife. Both rabbits and antelope cross the prairie with ease, their movements meteoric across the land.