Ah, the nocturnal rainbow—nature’s resplendent folly, a phenomenon as grand as it is capricious, enchanting as it is inconvenient. Some say these arcs of color are the sky’s unbidden flourish, a gaudy bauble splattered over the constellations. Really, who but the stars would _need_ such adornment, their beauty already renowned in all astronomical societies?

Of course, when nightfall rolls in and the first spectrum graces the heavens, the commoners bustle to their windows, muttering with predictable delight, as though the appearance of color bands against the inky night is some miracle worthy of awe. Oh, they’re _awed_, yes, sipping their weak teas in fraying nightclothes, fumbling with spectacles, wholly unaware of the fickleness, the sheer _disorder_ these colors wreak upon our routines.

Take, for instance, the Starlight Rainbow Display Regulations, which I, in my considerable magnanimity, co-authored to impose some modicum of order. The nocturnal rainbow is no haphazard occurrence in our town. Oh no, it’s a parade of regimented elegance: 8:05 p.m., on the dot, as the last hues of sunset have departed, and precisely at three-quarter waning moon. Yet every fortnight, someone calls to carp about the _brightness_ of the violet hues disturbing their sleep. As if the moon itself is without fault here!

How marvelously inconsiderate of Mother Nature, to throw her colors with such abandon, without consultation, as if rainbows were nothing more than tawdry advertisements flung across our once-serene nightscape. One wonders what they might advertise: Optimism? Pah!

Optimism indeed! The notion is laughable. These rainbows—these glaring, polychromatic monstrosities—are hardly the stuff of whimsy. Why, only last week, Mrs. Barstow down the lane lodged a formal grievance about the indigo band interfering with her curtains. Said it “clashed with the wallpaper and unnerved the cat.”

Frankly, I sympathized with the wallpaper, an exquisitely restrained paisley, far too tasteful to endure a relentless assault of garish purples and sickly greens. But there are _protocols_, and one cannot simply turn off a rainbow. I had to remind her, as I so often do with these insufferable layfolk, that we are dealing with a phenomenon as mysterious as it is mandatory. One cannot merely “turn it down,” as one might a gas lamp.

Then there was the matter of the rain. Ah, the misguided notion that rainbows necessitate rain! Such provincial thinking. Our nocturnal rainbows require no such indulgence. The nightly hues simply unfurl from the sky, like a practiced illusionist pulling ribbons from a hat. A shimmering spectacle without so much as a single drop of precipitation. But try explaining that to young Geraldine from the post office. She insists on packing her umbrella every night, scurrying home beneath each rainbow as though fleeing from Zeus himself. I’ve told her countless times that she is in no danger of dampness, yet she looks at me as if I’d asked her to march straight into Hades without a parasol.

And as for the tourists—well, don’t get me started on them. They come in droves, cameras flashing, pointing, gasping as if they’ve unearthed some unspeakable treasure. As if _we_ should be grateful for their pilgrimage. Once, I overheard a particularly excitable visitor describe our nocturnal rainbows as “otherworldly.” She snapped her photo and whispered to her friend that it was “like nothing I’ve ever seen!” Poor woman; I pitied her poverty of imagination.

But last night, there was an incident of such rank absurdity that it surely cements my point about the utter impracticality of these garish nocturnal displays. It seems a young couple, newly arrived from the city and evidently not briefed on the _dangers_ of nightly rainbows, ventured out at the height of the 8:05 spectacle. Cloaked in the ill-bred arrogance of newcomers, they strolled beneath the violet arch, hand in hand, giggling like it was a carnival.

And then—can you believe it—they _proposed_! Right there, under the full saturation of a midnight spectrum. It was a scene so cloying, so indulgently picturesque, that I nearly choked on my Earl Grey. The village children, already gathering for their nightly romp beneath the rainbows, cheered as if they’d witnessed a royal coronation.

“Shameless romanticism,” I muttered, tapping my teacup in disdain. But my voice, as it often does, seemed lost in the rising din of cheers. And to my horror, the village council, in a decision that reeks of populist appeal, has now decreed that this spectacle shall be made a regular event—monthly proposals under the rainbow, complete with flowers and lanterns, “to celebrate the magic of love.”

Magic, indeed! They’ll be hosting night picnics next, scattering blankets across the square, watching the colors with utter disregard for the sanctity of a properly regulated night. And what of the constellations, those noble, dignified entities reduced to mere wallpaper, smothered beneath this vulgar tapestry of color?

As I finished my tea, my only solace was in knowing, with certainty, that time would prove me right. Soon, they’d grow weary of these frivolities; they’d remember the quiet of night before all this nonsense began. For now, I retire to my study, where my curtains remain defiantly drawn against the undisciplined spectacle outside. I remain, as ever, a steadfast guardian of sense in this gaudy, rainbow-streaked world.