the well written - cormac mccarthy

He rose and turned toward the lights of the town.  The tide-pools bright
as smelterpots among the dark rocks where the phosphorescent seacrabs
clambered back.  Passing through the salt grass he looked back.  The
horse had not moved.  A ship's light winked in the swells.  The cold
stood against the horse with its head down and the horse was watching,
out there past men's knowing, where stars are drowning and whales
ferry their vast souls through the black and seamless sea.

- Cormac McCarthy, Blood Meridian: Or the Evening Redness in the West

A Dutch Etching