This morning is covered with the blanket of cold, wet works, of February, dripping and freezing each drop.
The grass and long growth are pulled white, which sets in offset to the black and brown of his coat.
Beneath his semi-curly locks are horns, short and sallow against the midnight black hair, striking his eyes that stare so coldly into the morning without sun.
His back bent up and then down, his throat so gingerly covered with hair, and his demeanor, softly strangled in the glossy light, will break, and fear shall break among us.
Him standing there, unreachable with only the light, hard to feel with the distance, but finding his thoughts for the next second, for the next millennium, that are hidden there, behind those dark cold eyes.
Ralph Peck
Photography by Jeremiah Zurenda
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