I sit atop a cliff, my t-shirt still wet from the sweat that proves the effort that has bought me to this tranquil rock bathed in the sun and wind overlooking a scene of lake and mountain.
As I sit the wind stiffens and the sky darkens, the blue hue gives way to grey.
Across the lake a lace curtain of a rain shower forms and draws nearer. The waltzing splendour on the lake gives way to patterns of fractal like intricacy, patterns within patterns, swirls within swirls, faster and faster. It’s like a street dance crew has invaded a tea-dance. This way and that way they dart across the waters.
I stand and ponder my need for shelter or a coat, but stand and marvel at the beautiful complexity of the scene as the lace curtain draws nearer.
Then, just as the curtain is about to become a veil the wind shifts to the north and street dancers move away from me and towards the town in the distance.
The rolling waltzing patterns of peak and trough return as if they had never been disturbed. Continuing in the dance until the next time the lace curtain and the street dancers return.
Thank you for making me so wonderfully complex!
Your workmanship is marvellous—how well I know it.