In the waning sunlight, that time between day and night, swathes of color exhibit strange behavior. Patches of white fur in the foreground vanish and become windows to an eerily blue-green sky. Shadows and dark splotches recede even further, turning deep crimson. Clouds seem more like spills of paint, and where the clouds and sky end and the cows begin, I can no longer say. What's close might seem near, and vice versa. Scratches across the surface strengthen the form of the front plane of the closest cow's face - his is a face which comes forth clear from the chaos, the portion of the apparition that emerges distinctly from the ghostly mist for but a moment. The rest of the scratches serve to further collapse the near with the far. What's the big deal, you might ask? It's just cows. Cows in a pack. Cows looking out at the viewer. Curious? Anticipating? These cows are more than cows. They are a burning forest fire - and are those the antlers of a poor moose whose been caught in the flames? They are will-o'-the-wisps and cackling jack-o-lanterns, floating mustaches, and small strips of black and red yarn drifiting toward the ground.
