When the sky is on fire everyone knows it. Lane one through six.
Its like someone took a paintbrush and dipped in pinks and lilacs and midnights, as you stand there in between sets and stare into those paint-strip clouds and wonder who the painter was that night.
As you kick on your back toward the shallow end and in those brief moments of a touch turn, the whole western horizon above the blackening shadow-trees turns from a baby’s blue into a forest fire.
One set its nothing, they next, the pool lights are on, the water is a minty green, and the sky is dancing a artists ballet. The cirrus clouds are pink, the shadows are purple, the cumulus threatening rain earlier are now ablaze in hues of brilliant sunflower and daisy yellows and rich oranges deeper and brighter than any campfire flame.
You stop and stare during turns, everyone takes off their goggles for social kick, and when you dive into the water, its like diving into a dreamworld of clouds and silk.
By the time you get out the stars are out, winking and twinkling as you pull off your cap. The moon that was hiding in the clouds like a Cheshire cat’s grin is now gleaming just beyond the reach of the deck lights.
You pull your towel closer around your shoulders and grin as the last small rays slip over the soccer fields as you think,
Nothing beats a swimmer’s sky.
~ Of Rainy Days