Why Rainbows Cross Valleys — Before rainbows crossed valleys, they only leaned against single hills, too shy to stretch. Read the full story →
Before rainbows crossed valleys, they only leaned against single hills, too shy to stretch. Sable hated that, because the footbridge she had woven from willow strips over Pinecurl Creek sat in the gray middle, unseen by cloud, goat, or moon. Her fingers smelled of sap, and her palms stung proudly where the reeds had rubbed them smooth.
She tried hanging bells from the rails. Clink-clink, said the wind, but the mist swallowed the sound. Then, while fixing a loose cabin step, Sable found something wedged where nobody had ever knelt to look: a clear stone triangle, cold as creek water and bright at its edges.
“Don’t tell the thunder,” she whispered, and set the prism on her bridge post just as rain thinned to silver. Sunlight struck it, split into seven ribbons, and rushed from ridge to ridge, landing on both sides of her handmade bridge like a giant promise. Ever since, rainbows cross whole valleys to show where careful hands have connected one side to another; next time you see those colors over the pines, can you spot where Sable’s proud little bridge might be hiding?
