Style of John Steinbeck creative story

There was a beauty in the death of the cattle. A kind of frustrated satisfaction that is wrought from an uphill struggle finally over, despite ending the journey at the foot of the mountain. Gaunt bodies littered the fractured earth, creating a stillness in the air, a sense of a battle just over; a battle where each side had slaughtered all the warriors of the other. The shriveled mounds of stagnant meat were dissolving into the air, creating a rankness that completed the mood. Rib bones pointed defiantly at the sun, making a final stand against the cruelty of nature; shouting a silent message into the wind which carried the loud stench of all that is inevitable and frightening. The sky before dusk was filled with heat and light, an emptiness that promised nothing, yet held the fate of many. The heat robbed the earth of its life and stole the cool laughter of the creeks. The light exploded into raucous laughter at the ill fate of the living, and mocked the cows as they expelled a last pathetic grunt into the night. The cows closed their saddened eyes with an agony so intense that every soul filled creature felt a strange loss of dignity in their bones. And the great old trees wept until the morning.