I watch the breeze blow Daisy’s moustache. This is a local effect of something that is too big for me to see. Daisy lets the breeze stir her whiskers. There is breeze and there is breeze in whiskers. There is paw in breeze on grass. What does all this add up to? I ask. Daisy wrinkles her nose and breathes the far distance. It’s not easy to sniff out, she says, but it is bright. It has been growing for a long time, like a storm ­– but do not call it a storm. It is old and slow. I feel its presence everywhere, she says. Daisy lifts her head. Oh! how she loves the breeze! There she is – tiny dog – facing its strange beauty. I watch it pass over her like a kiss.