The parched pasture
passing my window
isn’t empty;

the shadow cast
by the lone willow
isn’t shadow merely:

a herd of black cattle
has pooled there
like ink in a bottle,

has remade for itself
out of the glare
a deeper shade.

New to The New Criterion?

Subscribe for one year to receive ten print issues, and gain immediate access to our online archive spanning more than four decades of art and cultural criticism.

This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 32 Number 2, on page 31
Copyright © 2023 The New Criterion | www.newcriterion.com
https://newcriterion.com/issues/2013/10/drive