To the Top of the Mountain

50

THE RED LIGHT of dawn spills out over the pale, shining blue sea. The azure blue carving its way up out of the display of colours. A faint heat haze dances on the horizon, and above the treetops at the edge of the forest, a light, fleeting mist floats. Several small rain clouds gather above the little stone house – without blocking out the sun, still hesitating just above the curvature of the Earth.

The curvature of the Earth, so visible.

All weather conditions, all times of day seem to be gathered in one place.

On the porch of the little house, a man sits reading. It is warm but raining slightly. The rain patters gently on the roof of the porch, and when he looks up from his book, steam is rising between the falling raindrops.

A woman comes out of the house and stands beside him; she places a hand on his shoulders, and receives his arm around her hip.

She can see the foam along the edge of the pale blue water. And she hears a sound, a mysterious clicking sound. And she understands what it is.

It’s the dolphins’ song.