Sheep drowse in the orchard around the corner and May light, fragile and tentative, dapples on their wool, on the last of the blooms, the million blades of green.
She says we should run the ditch to the flock and I say no, this could scare them, as dashing tends to do — put the beauty to startled flight — so we walk slow, her fingers twined through mine, our legs brushing the globes of dandelion haze, the planets all propped on slender stems swaying.
We sit at the fence. A lamb bleats. A gust blows the galaxy of gauzy seeds. And it’s only a moment — the kind on the wind, the kind you almost miss, the kind that comes unbeckoned — and the veil lifts, the orbit shifts, and I think I see behind.
Life is only all our moments slipped on in a row, one after the other — and if you turn slow in the light, the moments might shine translucent and the surprise of it catches you and releases you and it is what you always hoped and always knew.
There is mystery and glory in every now.
The flock grazes towards us. The bees drone. There will be apples hanging on these limbs in the fall and this sun-warmed wool will be knit into rows of sweaters and ribbed cuffs and long sleeves.
Her breath blows dandelions worlds.
Photos: Light falling on sheep in Ephraim Weber’s orchard
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