I almost drove past it. Highway 95, somewhere south of nowhere, the range running right up to the shoulder of the road. Three head of cattle around a feed trough, not bothered by the heat or the cars or me. Behind them the mountains had gone pale and flat the way they do at midday, when the light stops being kind and just tells the truth. I pulled over. Stood in the dust a while. Out here nothing performs — the cattle don't, the mountains don't, the heat doesn't. You just shoot.
I almost drove past it. Highway 95, somewhere south of nowhere, the range running right up to the shoulder of the road. Three head of cattle around a feed trough, not bothered by the heat or the cars or me. Behind them the mountains had gone pale and flat the way they do at midday, when the light stops being kind and just tells the truth. I pulled over. Stood in the dust a while. Out here nothing performs — the cattle don't, the mountains don't, the heat doesn't. You just shoot.
