Your antelope plays with deer on the home range, as noted in chronicles. They bring dust with them, a taste of air, and smiles of delight with rare discouraging word. They rove the flat open embrace of land that poets imagine, distinctly doled to the hardworking advantage. As cattle ruminate with interesting stomachs, so too the antelope, more properly known as pronghorn. That name befits the instant of yearly cycle with horn replacement. Furthermore it corrects the etymology derived from the other hemisphere, id est the relationship between the species here and there. Cattle having it so good, pronghorn will slip into the herd like you at the office, to feed and gaggle. Whereas you have no space, tho, just the instruments of labor, the pronghorn roams the spaces as space itself. The songs prove accurate, the wind whistles, so much needs telling, and the skies are not cloudy all day. Take a deep breath in your vestibule for surcharge, the pay world gives and ungives.
It begins with a scanning of light, a settlement of words. The lightly fracture of Bird sound begins in the office of seeing. Not sentiment but sense, as cool as Green in the Early days. Pasture resists nonpasture, no one Refers to none. All remains including nothing. Morning Is belief and there simply there. Tides go freshly to the point.
Comments