The fineness of the line draws you in:
ink made from the soot of charred bones,
furred shadows soft beneath the trees.

You lean in like a stamp collector
because one hundred and seventy years ago
someone in Holland took an iron stylus

and marked metal to still
this stand of oaks so you could enter
an endless June afternoon

where one lonely cow lies
in shade, head lifted in bovine meditation,
oblivious to any hovering presence

trying to discern whether its eyes are
open, closed, or somewhere in between.