The wind is full of spirits tonight. I can see them, pale blue as hydrangeas, silver clear as raindrops on glass.
They think I don’t notice the way they draw their translucent skirts to them as they plummet through the air. They think I think I’m dreaming as they slide gleaming and fearless through fresh green leaves.
They want me to think it is lizards or possums scuffling in the underbrush but no creature can catch the moonlight like a child fashioned only from the wind.
The spirits sing. It sounds like a sigh, a rustle beneath an open window. It is hewn stone slicing through the night, earth to air; boundless.
When the wind comes like this I believe in the invisible the most. The delicate light standing firm against the dark. What I know is coming but what I can’t see, good or bad. Voices leaving, voices returning like trails of mist caught in the current from the river.
When I believe in the things I cannot see it is as if I am made steady. In spite of the whimsy in the air. In spite of it all.
It is a kind of worship.