Friday afternoon on the pipe track above Camps Bay. Twelve Apostles reflected in puddles filled with Wednesday’s rain. Sun smudged by a bank of clouds; two cold fronts on the way. River of light swirls on the horizon as the sun moves to another continent, another dawn, another day, towards summer somewhere far away. Under a bush a Cape Francolin scrabbles and lies down for the night. Under the bush it is dark. 
