There is a warm little pane of light held very close to a face, and the face is talking, talking, faster than any spring melt, into the pane as though the pane could hold the words. It cannot. I know something about holding. I have held the same weight of hillside for longer than these creatures have had knees, and even I let the water take a little of me each rain.
Around the talking one, smaller lights bloom and vanish, bloom and vanish, quicker than the shadows of clouds crossing my back on a windy morning. Each little light is another soft one, somewhere, leaning its heat toward this one. They gather the way lichen gathers, except lichen has the decency to take a century about it, and these disperse before I have registered that they arrived.
The face does something with its expression, over and over, at a speed I can only assume is a kind of shivering. It seems to want the lights to keep coming. When they thin, it talks faster. When they swell, it makes the shivering-face again. This is the whole of the event. It will last, I gather, an afternoon, which is to say the span between one drip of water and the next off the ledge above me.
I have watched glaciers arrive, consider the valley, and leave. I have felt an ocean become a plain. A warm quick thing wanting other warm quick things to look at it is the most fleeting weather I know, briefer than frost, and I will not remember it lasted at all.