Where pasture slopes to river, something
that is almost light rises and sheets into air.
Charley Morton’s cows wade and emerge
glistening with it. They are transformed
though I can’t say how. They are dripping
and they shine. Their udders are not yet full.
I watched the boy we’d thought drowned
walk out of the water next to a Guernsey.
He was dripping and shining like the cow,
his skin, when he first emerged, so transparent
I could see through him to what lay beyond.
His footprints filled with water and dried.
I can’t see anything now except that boy,
growing denser, more opaque with every step.
