They
scan all the red wilderness, dispensing their blessings of cool shadows
and rain where the need is the greatest, refreshing the rocks, their
offspring as well as the vegetation, continuing their sculpture, deepening
gorges and sharpening peaks. Sometimes, blending all together, they weave
a ceiling from rim to rim, perhaps opening a window here and there for
sunshine to stream through, suddenly lighting some palace or temple and
making it flare in the rain as if on fire.
Sometimes, as one sits gazing from a high, jutting promontory, the sky
all clear, showing not the slightest wisp or penciling, a bright band of
cumuli will appear suddenly, coming up the canon in single file, as if
tracing a well-known trail, passing in review, each in turn darting its
lances and dropping its shower, making a row of little vertical rivers
in the air above the big brown one. Others seem to grow from mere points,
and fly high above the canon, yet following its course for a long time,
noiseless, as if hunting, then suddenly darting lightning at unseen marks,
and hurrying on. Or they loiter here and there as if idle, like laborers
out of work, waiting to be hired.
Half a dozen or more showers may oftentimes be seen falling at once, while
far the greater part of the sky is in sunshine, and not a raindrop comes
nigh one.
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