Later I will think: "The air was charged with water; the water was gathering in a bowl made by fire and rimmed by earth." At the time, I don't think any such thing. At the time, I think: "I ought to start back down the path, or else I'll still be on the mountain when the tropical night sets in." But in my memory, I'm not heading down the ashen path. In memory, I'm climbing; or standing above the crater, leaning on a railing, watching the lake accept the rain. The moment stops.