WE never know when our days will suddenly be enlightened
by one of the smaller miracles of life. I went out on to the southward-looking terrace of my hillAop home this morning to watch the sunrise. After a savage day and Might of storm, the east was breaking into horizontal bands of open sky, with the cloud lit at the breaks into a sullen pink. The colour deepened and spread, and at last the rim of the sun appeared. I stared at that recurring wonder, as one stares at the minute hand of a grandfather clock, trying, and only just succeeding, to detect the move- ment. Up came the rosy old giant, and all the air of the world about me sprang into warmth and life.
And now the miracle. Two pigeons came from the west, flying toward the sun. As they passed overhead, I looked up at their under-wings and bellies, and saw the red sun reflected in their shining feathers. For a moment they were flamingoes. Then they passed, and were pigeons again.
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