It seemed that a position upon the earth was emitting waves of color like a slow fountain. They weren’t clouds, or dust, or anything familiar. Like sheaths of light, flowing liquidly from the ground in this small area, and twirling, twining, twisting around each other. The effect was incandescent. I don’t know why this was happening. Was there a hole in the earth, there, in the field? I couldn’t see. I wasn’t able to approach closely at the time. Like scarves of colored light, slowly rising and tumbling together, changing each other. It reminded me of the way that passing strangers affect one another through a largely invisible process of gestural connotation. The lights of heaven seemed to take some notice, but I saw no animals there. Perhaps the strange event was an expression of the precursors to incarnation. A moment of prescient fertility appearing in the atmosphere itself, illustrating some peculiar feature of how spirits end up embodied. The visual appearance of those processes whose beauty calls them toward emergence in matter.