I'm assuming a lot of you, my faithful disciples, have visited a waterfall at some point in your lives. You know the sound of crashing water and the touch of mist on your skin. I've always found the experience of being near a waterfall frightening and a little mystical.
Billy Collins chases waterfalls . . .
Elk River Falls
by: Billy Collins
is where the Elk River falls
from a rocky and considerable height,
turning pale with trepidation at the lip
(it seemed from where I stood below)
before it unbuckles from itself
and plummets, shredded, through the air
into the shadows of a frigid pool,
so calm around the edges, a place
for water to recover from the shock
of falling apart and coming back together
before it picks up its song again,
goes sliding around some massive rocks
and past some islands overgrown with weeds
then flattens out, slips around a bend,
and continues on its winding course,
according to this camper’s guide,
then joins the Clearwater at its northern fork
which leads it all to the distant sea
where this and every other stream
mistakes the monster for itself,
sings its name one final time
then feels the sudden sting of salt.
turning pale with trepidation at the lip
(it seemed from where I stood below)
before it unbuckles from itself
and plummets, shredded, through the air
into the shadows of a frigid pool,
so calm around the edges, a place
for water to recover from the shock
of falling apart and coming back together
before it picks up its song again,
goes sliding around some massive rocks
and past some islands overgrown with weeds
then flattens out, slips around a bend,
and continues on its winding course,
according to this camper’s guide,
then joins the Clearwater at its northern fork
which leads it all to the distant sea
where this and every other stream
mistakes the monster for itself,
sings its name one final time
then feels the sudden sting of salt.
I'm not a person who can explain the sources or rivers or streams or lakes, but I do feel the pull of water. Being a Yooper, I have Lake Superior in my blood. Perhaps I'm part waterfall, blood crashing through my body at Niagara speeds.
It was Labor Day in the United States. Most people get a three-day weekend, culminating on Monday with celebrations of the working class and labor unions. There are even parades and community picnics in some places.
Me? I grilled hotdogs and bratwursts, boiled corn on the cob, and feasted with my wife and kids. It's really the last hurrah of summer before the work of autumn really begins. Tomorrow, my son starts his junior year of high school. My daughter starts her last year in the Upper Peninsula before she heads downstate for medical school. And the trees commence their annual marathon of oranges and golds and reds.
In a lot of ways, this time of the year reminds me of a waterfall--everything rushing along toward some distant, wintry ocean. There's no way to slow things down. Instead, I just seal myself in a barrel, roll myself into the current, and hope there aren't any rocks at the bottom to tear me apart.
In case you can't tell, Saint Marty is not a fan of pumpkin spice anything.
No comments:
Post a Comment