Under the live oak, and out along the stretch
where the moon lights the gravel white—
they're blinking, ﬂanks brilliant,
they're turning their heads. See them
not going anywhere particular, just standing now
outside the gate because the gate is open again
and the road what's beyond.
Some tilt their snouts up to the branches
to nibble at clusters of mistletoe; one shakes
her mane, loosing ﬂies. Someone left the gate open
so they've walked from the dewy ﬁeld;
see them gathered, scattered all over the road
under the stars, directionless, blowing warm air
from their nostrils. They have no debt to anyone.
Who knows how long they've stood
there, askew in the night, shufﬂing
and hufﬁng steam. By morning a man will ﬁnd them
under the low trees by the river
or in ﬂower beds near town. Not because
they are parched or starving. They walk
because night stretches out, and there is a road,
and someone has opened the gate.
TODAY IN SLATE
The Irritating Confidante
John Dickerson on Ben Bradlee’s fascinating relationship with John F. Kennedy.
My Father Invented Social Networking at a Girls’ Reform School in the 1930s
Renée Zellweger’s New Face Is Too Real
Sleater-Kinney Was Once America’s Best Rock Band
Can it be again?
The All The President’s Men Scene That Captured Ben Bradlee
Is It Better to Be a Hero Like Batman?
Or an altruist like Bruce Wayne?
Driving in Circles
The autonomous Google car may never actually happen.