Krishna's Hand

“I asked for a sign,” said the man on the old black bike, “and this is what happened. I call it a mist-ical rainbow. Mist-ical...”.   I was calling it a white rainbow. I’d been watching it for some time, not sure what I was seeing. There was no color, not really. But a definite arc, more brilliant than the fog around it. A thick bright arc without color. It didnt seem to matter if my sunglasses were on or off. The sea air was wonderful to breathe, damp and cool and fresh. I kept taking pictures of the white rainbow. The bicyclist was delighted that I was watching it too. “The rainbow is there, but we can’t really see it. It shows we are not perfect,” he explained, and, oddly enough, I knew what he meant. “It is Krishna’s hand,” said the man, a big grin spreading over his face. I could hear him as he pedaled away, “Krishna’s hand.”