The Texas Diaries: Entry One

That spectacular pink, delectable cloud over North Texas I take in from a concrete bench beneath a massive solar panel curved like the mast of a ship, alongside the imperceptible Trinity River. The trees, which look familiar but are probably not, since I have never visited this part of the world before, are filled with strikingly tall birds, black and mottled gray with long, fine, orange beaks. There are more than a 100 crowded on branches of a tree on the riverbank. Across is a stunning dilapidated building that was maybe a factory or a mill and is now fenced off with chinks of glass missing from its great arched windows. Iain and his camera gear are already yards and yards away, his forest-green shirt acting as camouflage among a cluster of trees at dusk. He is out of sight for a moment but his shape and the shape of his tripod reappear like Chinese shadow puppets on the crest of a hill.

Lightning in the vacuous cloud darts and flashes in the shape of streaky scars like neurons lighting up the brain. Soundless claps illuminate the outer edges and crevices of the cloud, sparks flying every which way -- and all of this light and energy seemingly contained in one cloud. "I can't tell whether it's in the cloud or behind it," Iain observes with his camera trained on the spectacle, snapping at regular intervals. Is his shutter fast enough to capture this God-event? Is anyone else seeing this? What a show! Four kayaks paddle by, a freight train roars and somebody calls on a loudspeaker: "42. Number 42." As night falls, the cloud has lost its form but veins of light still bounce within.