After a clear and cool moonless night, we awoke to a sea mist rolling in from the lake. The camp was in a damp fog of the likes of Bass Strait. If you turned your head back and looked straight up, you could see the duck-egg blue of the clear sky shining through. As we wheeled the circus out of camp and on to the track, the sun was placed at our tails. Ahead, hanging in the fog, was a white rainbow. No colour, just white against the grey fog, with the blue overhead.
Words are clumsy pretenders of the images of my mind.