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.

A Message from the Editors

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This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 32 Number 2, on page 31
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