LatinosUSA

Seeing them in winter, frozen mostly
a long white cascaded soft shape
is entirely different from the summer mountainside
when the strength of the water tumbling
down the fourteen-hundred-foot peak
brings the feelings the wetness home.
That moisture becomes as thoughts
those moving almost dreamlike
thru the synapses of the brain
as the water cascades, becoming image after image
the movie behind the eyelids one consecutive reel
thoughts connecting with the pictures there
a moist landing pool that is about to become speech.
This mountain scrapes the sky with definition,
clouds are barely above it in the blue sky
shaped into the harsh ridgetops
above the tree line, yet below it
there is the evidence of forests
some removed by snow slides of avalanches
trees lying askew mowed by God’s version of a lawnmower.
The lowest of the three waterfalls has not lost anything
of its forceful downpour, a fine mist congeals at its base, colors
float in it, wafting one into another moved by an invisible wind,
the pool at the base is just out of sight
from where she is sitting on the creekbank
where the water has ended up as tributary
to this roaring watercourse,
the tall pines covering the last passages.
The rocks on the bank her only seat,
it is the place she goes to
to have a sense of her Self
and the questions she must debate the answers to
inside her own ruminations.
There are the necessary silences then
only interrupted by the arpeggios of water moving by
or elk talk, the trumpeting heard only faintly
as far off as the answers she seeks.

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