The morning sun has taken up a determined spot in the sky as I lean against the corral fence. From the toes of my boots to the vast rolling horizon, waves of green careen this way and that in the Sandhills winds. I close my eyes for a moment, and they want to stay closed, but the sound of faraway thunder snaps me awake. The distant roar looms louder, louder, begins to consume the air around me, and then I can hear it for what it is: bellows and hooves – an enormous herd, a torrent of cattle rolling over the Great Plains. American thunder.

The communal effort I witnessed on branding day may be one of the richest traditions that’s emerged from the American West.