A summer rainstorm is moving out and the sun breaking back in, illuminating the perfectly curved southern leg of a rainbow, a thick, bright rainbow-colored section bridging precipitous cloud cover and tree line. For another person the rainbow would be an epiphany, spiritual rather than meteorological phenomenon, God’s magnificent paintbrush, etc. To him the rainbow is sunlight refracted through water droplets, secondary colors and hues variations of primary colors, manifestations of the base principle, subroutines of the routine.
Wet Hulk soaring upward, a jet stream of spray trailing behind him as he begins to descend past the minor axis. Where H is the apex of the half-ellipse at the height of his leap, gradually descending at first, factoring his propulsion and trajectory, when he arrives at I beyond the rainbow. Then the steep plunge back to earth, the rainbow a shimmering wall of primary colors until he’s passing through it and absent of color inside the wall of rain. Rain, the X variable, slowing Hulk imperceptibly, weighing him down by parts per billion or micrograms per liter, so where he’s estimating he’ll land isn’t where he does by less than a tenth of a mile, wrecking someone’s driveway.
