Looking at the sky is the act of a visionary. Raising your head, measuring the distance, that sense of inter-connectedness as you imagine all those other places you could be at that same time, if you just had made some different choices, or been given a different set of circumstances. Not to say that you aren’t happy where you are.

I’m at a crayfish party by the lake. Around the long table, friends and neighbours are toasting and singing, happily devouring those red, shining bodies and piling up their empty husks in rows on their plates. I don’t know what makes me look up from the carnage, but I do, and the sky looks strange and beautiful and lit from behind, like the adularescence of an indian moonstone. And I realise that the sun is setting behind the clouds, creating this effect, a little earlier each day. There’s a coolness in the air that speaks of seasons changing.

Later it starts to rain. First, just a drop or two, but then an almost monsoon-like shower. The table is hurriedly cleared from plates and food and glasses and cutlery and empty bottles and trash and that one person who never stops drinking when he should and it’s amazing that everything somehow gets back to the place it belongs. More or less, at least.

The rain is cold on my skin, but the lake is still warm when I step into it. The water is darker than black. I’m floating on my back looking up at the sky that set a few hours ago. It’s a strange sensation. It feels as if I’m suspended from some high point, looking down into some universe rather than the other way around. I guess it all depends on your point of view.

Back inside, I pull down the blinds, but keep a window open. Through it, I hear the rain.