The storm was already leaving when I noticed the town had grown a rainbow.

August 18, 2024. The rain quit somewhere over the headland, and a rainbow set itself down across the pastel town — the kind of stack of ochre and pink and washed blue that steps down a hillside toward the sea. I stood under a pine with a trunk thicker than my arms can reach, bougainvillea spilling at my feet, and watched the storm clouds back away over the water. Here is the one thing I keep with me from days like this: a rainbow is not a thing out there. It is an agreement between you, the sun behind your shoulder, and a sky still full of rain. Move three steps left, and it is somebody else's rainbow. Think of it like a mushroom flushing after a wet night — the fruit you see is only the visible end of a much bigger conversation between water, light, and place. Next storm that passes you, turn your back to the sun before it clears. See what shows up.