The field where earth crabs lived is part of a larger world. A world I see in exquisite detail; the green house where the stormy girl and her mother lived, other houses grown up on the meandering streets of the little “subdivision”, houses sparsely planted on curbed fields, the spaces between waiting for future homes grown from grains of sand taken from the earth not far away.
I see the block long church that flanks acres of brown field grass where pheasants, snakes and monarchs live alongside the the crabs who lived in the black, marshy earth alongside the path that lead to the creek where I played.
I see beyond the creek to tracks on risen ground and I hear the rumble and groan of a behemoth slowly rolling it’s captured, boxed freight past me.
I hear its deep throated backdraft of sucking air – its resonant cleansing breath – after a long run on steel ribbons, a sound so powerful and deep and for a brief moment – terrifying – that it seemed to lift me off my feet.
At times it seems these worlds float and swim around me; they draw close, then move away again and again. We pirouette through space and time as dancing partners. We share eyes and light streams. We flow into each other.
And even when they are dim and far away I sense them behind the veil.