I count antelope on a drive across Wyoming. I notice four, north of Rawlins. I note a buck and two does alongside a drilling rig in Green River. On a stretch of highway made from sky, I squint into the sun. I watch a herd grazing negative space. I do not take photos until I get to the Tetons. I frame a male with a heart-shaped rack against the peaks and glaciers. Prairie antelope don’t know that they walk inexpensive real estate. They cannot tell wastelands from landscape art. Envy their heedlessness.