Fleece floats down like a feather. It falls, pieces bundling together on the floor like fallen hair at a barber. It’s white, like freshly fallen snow-but it doesn’t stick. It sort of floats, just inches off the ground. The air between the floor and the fleece is golden. It smells of incense and manger-straw (tinged with donkey dung). I kneel down (face to floor and grin to ground), peering at this miracle. The air between the two layers shimmer and blur. It bleeds. Gold hops up and down. The breath of the gods made visible. Or maybe it’s just a nearby air-vent. I’m not sure. Could be either. I’ll take a look later. But for now I just stare at this psychedelic show. It makes my eyes bleed salt, but I can’t help looking and listening to my teeth chatter as I do so. I try not to blink (which is most likely why I am crying), so as not to miss it. I stay for hours, drawing puzzled glances from sheep shearers around me. I don’t care. I love this light and can’t help myself. I am hypnotised. And as I stare at the gap between the fleece and the floor, I start to turn into a sheep.