Saturday essay: Passages
The early morning sky is deceiving as the final third of spring prepares for summer's advent.
As the first orange of the rising sun crests the horizon, illuminating the sharp and well-defined cumulus clouds, a wide and natural brush appears to have painted a tall and broad mountain range.
It's a fleeting mirage as the growing glow reveals the reality — the orange has turned decidedly reddish; urban “sailors” soon will take warning.
A “passage” time is upon us once again. Just as Labor Day mentally signals the beginning of fall, Memorial Day signals the beginning of summer. Just as the urge to nest and cocoon comes with the former, fueled by the first hints of foreboding northwest winds, the urge to step out and explore comes with the latter, energized by southwest breezes that, while at times carrying storms, carry the promise of sweeter air and rainbows, real and metaphorical.
The red skies have faded to a storm-hue purple. In the distance, there's a sense of a streaking fog that's actually the rapidly moving rain sheet. It arrives much as does a bucket of water being discarded. Makeshift ports — a bus stop here, an entryway there — harbor those caught by surprise (or at least feigning surprise to mask their umbrella forgetfulness).
But as quickly as they came, the showers are spent. There's no rainbow this morning. And the passing bus masks any sweetness that would have been a consolation.
— Colin McNickle
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