It’s good standing in the breath of the waterfall. The spray feels like bolts of silk flung into the air. The roar divides into complex phrases and elongated sentences. If I stand here long enough, I’ll become a water creature, freshly gilled. Or at least amphibious, frog-faced to face an uneasy world. Days of midsummer rain have refueled the waterfall. A year ago, it was dry, a hulk of boulders without obvious purpose. I climbed up the wall of stone and stood where the brook had flowed all winter. The July heat had sunk into the naked outcroppings. Now it’s a thrust of power nothing organic can challenge. I want to live in its favor forever. At least for a moment or two longer. If I slip on this plank walkway, I’ll flush downstream all the way to the serious river in the valley below. That’s only a couple of miles, but the abrasion of the rocks would render me naked to the bone. That has its own attractions, but for now I’ll just inhale the mist, a membrane between dream and dreamer, porous but tough..