Once or twice or three times, I saw something rise
from the dust in the yard, like the soul of the dust,
or from the field, the soul-body of the field, rise
and hover like a veil in the sun billowing, as
if I could see the wind itself.
I thought I did it, but I didn't.
As if the edges of things blurred,
so what was in bled out, breathed up
and mingled, bush and cow, dust and well,
breathed a field I walked through waist high,
as through high grass or water, my fingers
swirling through it or it through me.
I saw it.
It was thing and spirit, both, the real world,
evident, invisible.