Halfway through the latest phenomena, you stop to observe a small herd of black angus cattle standing in snow in a wheat field outside Ringling, Montana. It is the first day of winter, 18 below & they’ve huddled close together in a wide circle, en masse, one indivisible body warming the other....

Somewhere far, far out On the Montana plains Left in the attic Of an old stone farmhouse Hangs a broken-necked fiddle With mouse-gnawed soundboard And missing strings. I hear it most nights. The scored dirt floor below Is rutted, the windows gone There’s less and less For the walls to be concerned about To say nothing of...

The path from here must be instinctively traced each breath avowed to relational space all thought attribution all feeling atavistic The way rain and snow dance across an interval of shadow scaling in and out of form the way stars darken toward us until our struggle to see them ceases and we are secretly...

Which streaks the woods road at noon — Shade or sun, Across the nature of the other one? Do shadows, shapes of leaves and limbs, Take all the light And leave, except for minor errors, night? Or, is black the habit of summer sky? And flawing his blindness, Only shooting stars Behind the walker’s...

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