I hung a glass angel on a small antique pedestal mirror, partly for a good place to put it, partly to obscure streaks in the mirror that I never actually look into anyway but still bounces nice light around, and partly in hopes of seeing it cast a rainbow one day.
A few days later, I saw a couple of rainbows appear — which the angel had nothing to do with (directly anyway).
One was an intense little rectangle on the bottom of a window sash. An investigation involving moving objects around revealed it was momentarily caused by a reflective tag on a tidy white box on the window sill.
The next morning a big, faint rainbow appeared at the horizon over the river as the sun was still rising. It lasted a little longer than I thought it might and even reappeared briefly after fading away entirely for a few minutes.
Finishing up my annual dose of rhubarb after these two colorful events, I again admired the vivid magenta (fuchsia?) color against the white ceramic bowl; it reminded me of a color of the rainbow a couple days ago and again just then.
One time on a local bus in Ireland using up the last ride on my pass (purchased after ample deliberation at the window of a counter in a train station with a black and white tile floor from a clerk who said “ye” instead of “you”) I saw a rainbow and couldn’t resist pointing it out to a couple young women across the aisle. One of them said, “We get those a lot here.”
While finishing up the rhubarb at our kitchen table there was some Celtic music on the radio. I read a story about a beloved dog that was lost for days but then found with the help of second graders and a shaman.
On that trip to Ireland it was a personal goal of mine to pat a dog every day, and as I recall my travel buddy and I did just that and then some — no rhubarb, but plenty of happy dogs, rainbows and angels.