White Oxen

A man walks beside them with a whip that he cracks. The cart they draw is painted with Saracens and Crusaders, fierce eyes and ranks of spears. They are on the steep road that goes up the mountain. Their neat-stepping hoofs appear to be flickering in the sun, raising dust. They are higher than the roofs on which striped gourds and melons lie ripening. They move among the dark green olives that grow on the rocks. they dwindle as they climb ... vanish around a corner and reappear walking on the edge of a precipice. They enter the region of mist and darkness. I think I can see them still: a pair of yoked oxen the color of ivory or smoke, with red tassels, in the gathering dusk.