It rushes down the mountain:

a cataract of sound

a spray of mist and shade-light

a roaring, silence round.

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I pick my steps on slick-stones,

a cat afraid of glass,

to plunge my head beneath it

and feel it—surging past

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I feel the flecking wet sparks

I step onto the ledge,

but find my heart withholding

now…as I near the edge.

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The water rush cascading

is louder than the sight.

Another step’s surrender

to drowning noise and white,

–

as yet, like predetermined,

like shadows in the fall,

I step into the torrent,

and give the water all

and GASP and spew and sputter—

the very pounding spray

that seeks to steal my breathing

delights in every way.

–

I step aside, and panting,

from pleasure or from strain

I know (because I’m human)

that I’ll be back…again.

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