COWBOY PICTURES I want to send away to California for pictures of the sun. That state of the Union is famous for its light. Even in black and white, the glamour of young men who've oiled up their skin till it shines with the sky is bound to make my day, to say nothing of night. I can't imagine what colour could do.  Or what those guys go through to get to that estate.  Mountain passes, the Great Salt Plain? A still-hostile frontier might explain why most wear cowboy hats black and white as the pictures.  But what explains them lacking all other clothes?  A couple are trying the wild Indian bit, child faces looking paler under the cheap feathers and war paint.  And of course this grown-up guy as Horse needs some explaining too. Or at least a lasso. All the other rules seem the same.  Whatever game they're playing, the only difference seems to be the gold there was in them there hills is now a gleam of silver bodies, still as any mineral. Gold caught in shades of grey, never aging.  Will they? Picture yourself that way in California , some green rancher, say, out riding your range, without a thought for what sweet heart you left across the Great Divide.  Or maybe be the little lost dogie he cradles to his chest. So the pictures suggest some sentimental ways of bondage, yes, of boys being boys.  Shining with the sky, in skin and breath and eye, they're the picture of youth --their six guns are shooting stars through the bars of the dark that covers more than half the planet. Try to bite the bullet.