It's a perfect sort of blustery fall day.  Leaves wave and shudder, causing red and gold swirls. Herds of clouds trundle across the sky, darkening and lightening, splitting and re-grouping.  Brilliant sunshine breaks out and retreats.  Curtains of rain cause momentary scurrying, winshield wipers and headlights.

Driving about on errands, I look north across the valley in hopeful expectation.  Double arches of broad colored bands reward me with a shimmering stance. 

I see why rainbows are such symbols of hope.  They sparkle like they don't belong to the land.  

As a child, even after hearing about the pot of gold at the end, I always dreamed of climbing rainbows, just following them to the other world where I was sure they led.   Later, I thought of them less as objects and more as other sentient creatures, visiting us poor, hapless humans.  I thought of stumbling into the rainbow people and speaking to them of secrets.  

I still look at them and consider them less a phenomenon and more a visitor.  Where did they come from and where do they go?

Someday, I'd like to go with them.