Light and water dance above the valley.
A passing shower drenches the fields east of the valley’s pocket of forest —rows of corn and Christmas trees drinking the sudden rain—while the western sun burns in a clear blue sky. Between these two worlds, water and light conspire to create something extraordinary.
The rainbow rises like blown glass, a perfect arch spanning the valley. Its colors stand distinct as jewels—ruby borders orange, then gold, emerald, sapphire, and finally violet. It bridges ridge to ridge, soaring high above the towering Dawn Cypress that rises from the streambed, dwarfing its forest neighbors.
Then, as if the sky cannot contain its own glory, a second arch appears beneath the first. The double rainbow hangs suspended, each band of color carved sharp against storm-dark clouds, defying the usual softness of light on water.
We spill from the house, phones raised in a futile attempt to capture the moment in pixels. But already, the magic begins its slow dissolution. The edges lose their glass-sharp clarity first, bleeding into the rain-heavy air. What seemed solid transforms into watercolor—red merging with orange, yellow seeping into green, blue embracing violet.
The lower arch fades first, its colors returning to the sky that borrowed them. The higher rainbow holds longer but eventually surrenders its distinct bands until only a whisper of yellow light remains, trembling between earth and cloud. Then that, too, vanishes, leaving only the sweet scent of spring rain.
One Response
Your journal entries are such a gift to me. I try hard to avoid negative media which seems to have taken on a life of its own. Starting a day with one of your beautifully written and thoughtful reflections is a wonderful antidote.