The first week of August hangs at the very top of summer, the top of the live-long year, like the highest seat of a Ferris wheel when it pauses in its turning. The weeks that come before are only a climb from balmy spring, and those that follow a drop to the chill of autumn, but the first week of August is motionless, and hot. It is curiously silent, too, with blank white dawns and glaring noons, and sunsets smeared with too much color. Often at night there is lightning, but it quivers all alone.
Beauty has as many meanings as man has moods. Beauty is the symbol of symbols. Beauty reveals everything, because it expresses nothing. When it shows us itself, it shows us the whole fiery-coloured world.
I stood in the yard watching as the moon floated up from behind the trees that line the back of the lagoon. Thunder rumbled low and quiet in the distance, flickers of lightning joined in to create a call and response of flash-rumble, flash-rumble. I could hear the woosh of heavy rain coming from behind me, traversing from west to east. Within minutes, the clouds moved in, shrouding the moon. The rain followed.