Last night as I rode home from work on my bike, it began to rain.
It started light, like a mist, which is what most of the rain in my part of the world does.
But then, just as I neared our apartment, it started to pour.
Not your everyday kind of pouring. Definitely not your everyday in Portland kind of pouring. This was the kind of pouring seen usually in humid and tortuously hot places like Florida or the Midwest states.
Lucky enough for me, I was mostly home. As I pulled up to the side of my apartment, I looked up.
Above me, a shaft of sunlight was pushing its way between our apartment and the house next to it. The rain, like most rain, was not easy to see (though it was easy to feel, especially because I was wearing a pair of sandals without socks).
But the rain was vivid inside the shaft. It was like staring into a dishwasher as it runs. It was like static on an old television. The rain danced with incredible power; and as it fell, it disappeared nearly twenty feet above the ground, where the light ended.
I pulled off my helmet, stepped off my bicycle, and walked under the shaft. And then I was home.
