It rushes down the mountain:
a cataract of sound
a spray of mist and shade-light
a roaring, silence round.
–
I pick my steps on slick-stones,
a cat afraid of glass,
to plunge my head beneath it
and feel it—surging past
–
I feel the flecking wet sparks
I step onto the ledge,
but find my heart withholding
now…as I near the edge.
–
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.
–
–
–
–
–
–
–
–
–
This is so what Ethan would do!
LikeLike
I know! I don’t why it is, but if there is water involved I will get wet. Even if I don’t plan on it. It’s just how my world works. I mentioned that recently to one of my students and he said “that’s because you’re a big teenager.” Which is probably about accurate.
LikeLike
As another “person who writes stuff,” I really enjoy the stuff you write. This one is a real keeper.
LikeLike
Thank you 🙂 That’s encouraging.
LikeLike