Long ago, an angel sat around with nothing to do.  So god gave it a paintbrush.  The angel asked what was supposed to be done with the brush, and god said a portrait would be nice.  Then god got silent again and left the angel to think things over.  "Well, let's see," the angel thought.  "I can't do a portrait of god because I don't know what god looks like.  The angel flew around asking the other angels for help, but they didn't know what god looked like, either.  Perplexed, the angel flew to earth and asked the creatures who dwelt there what god looks like.

"Oh that's easy," said a bush, but that's all the bush would say on the matter.  The angel asked a rock next, and the rock said, "God?  Why, everyone knows what god looks like, why don't you?"  Embarrassed at the question and now even more unsure, the angel blew away on the wind and asked next a hungry lion what god looked like.  But the lion only stared, its yellow eyes shining deeply into the angel's mind.  In the course of a day, which was a few million years, give or take, the angel asked everything on the earth the question. Then the stars were asked, the planets, and even the Edge of Time. Finally, c., as it was known, gave the angel an idea.

So the angel painted everything in sight, including day, including night.  Of the green things meant to be, the angel painted what we see.  Things of round were painted brown, and things gone flat were painted that.  The brush went everywhere, and where it went, lifeless things began to hint; to hint at colors yet to come, and so It painted stars and sun.  It water colored all the lakes, and to the oceans added flakes, of silver bubbles for the shine, to let all know what was divine.

And when and if It all was done, the angel rested on a sun, and thought about what It had been before Its encounter with the Him.  Or was It Her, it didn't know, so to the winter added snow and for the moon It made it glow. Now It was done, but no not quite; a bit was missing, a bit not right.  So god returned to help It out, and said that water must have spout.

"The tree must have a leafy top, and from the seeds must come a crop.  You cannot paint just one of me, of your confusion, I don't see.  What is so hard to understand, be you an angel, be you Man?  Did not the c. tell you how, be you grass, be you cow?  To which the angel said it back, "Well c. told me all was black.  He said I'd have to find The You, to know what color was your hue."  To which god chuckled and said this: "Is not time but just a kiss?  And aren't all dreams but morning mist?  And when it rains upon the ground, is not all life again reborn?"

Thus did the angel get its clue, and to the earth below It flew.  It painted red, It painted blue, purple, yellow, indigo too.  It shaped the colors into form, and hooked them onto tail of storm.  It made them liquid so they'd show, It made them sparkle so we'd know, then threw the brush into the sky, as if to say --The You is I.  And god was pleased and made it so, and that's how rain became rainbow.  For to each, and all of us, we can always see that brush.  It tells us all just not to fear, for when it rains, The It is near.  We know It by its graceful curve, that what it represents is love.  Perfection on a higher scale, be we angel, Man, or snail.  There is no loss, there is no found, but only rainbows, all around.