It arrived suddenly, almost without warning, save for an ominous blanket of clouds rolling quickly overhead. One moment I was taking a picture of the first jonquil to bloom, the next the sky was releasing a deluge of wind and water, and branches and leaves and pinecones were flying through the air like some Wizard of Oz cyclone. It was violent, and while storms usually thrill instead of scare me, this one left me spooked from its hurried and instant attack. A raw brutality crackled through the sky. Lawn bags by the road were torn asunder – hours of filling them wasted in the debris strewn across the street and driveway. The rain was savage too – not steady or gentle, but choppy and haphazard – gigantic drops that fell like little cups and swirling mists that stung and rendered umbrellas useless.
Then, just as quickly as it arrived, it was gone. In its place was a double rainbow – the covenant, the promise, or the simple refraction and reflection of light through water. The explanation of science has never taken away from a rainbow’s beauty and, quite frankly for my analytical mind, has only ever added to it.
A dramatic and messy glimpse of a possible summer, as the day’s 80-degree temperature offered a peek at what might come… how fortuitous to have it end in a rainbow.
