The Waterfall It had not rained for weeks. The waterfall dripped. Standing at the bottom of the cliff, I braced myself against the branch of a fallen tree and looked up. I could see only a small circle of sky; I felt as if I stood at the bottom of a dry well. I stepped onto the fallen tree's weathered trunk. Using it as an overpass, I avoided the rocks that poked out from the sand below. As I reached the end of the tree, I clutched the sandstone ledge that jutted from the cliff. Cool, damp air swirled from the ledge. The stone felt gritty as I pulled myself up. The red sandstone glistened and black leaves floated in puddles of water. I walked gingerly along the ledge, grasping an overhanging rock. Sunlight filtered through the trees. I remembered dicing cucumbers so thinly that when I held one to the light it had looked like a pane of green glass. I crouched under the overhang. When my eyes had adjusted, I saw a shallow pool of water surrounded by thick moss. From the moss a few sprigs of maidenhair fern sprouted like pale green confetti. The water reflected moss and the curving sandstone wall. A drop fell. The reflection vibrated, then reformed. As I watched the next drop gather, a whip bird called, quuuwit. I turned and looked out from the cliff into the sunlight. |