Through brush and over boulders we followed the sound of water hidden in trees. The natives we met on the narrow trails carrying chickens and bananas to sell in the city answered, “the waterfall? — not too far, after the next hill.” We walked to he hill, and the next, and the next.
You were annoyed. You had said you would find it easily, having gone there often in your youth.
We stopped counting the hours, kilometers we walked uphill and down, forward and back, pursuing that sound. We couldn’t just follow the river – there were boulders, thickets, cliffs, and we, no longer young.
Winded and sweaty, we rested. Such trickery – was it near, did we hear the roar of the falls, or just the sound of water pounding rocks into pebbles, grinding gravel into sand?
But it was late. We had to go home. We listened to the river singing, the river singing stone.
"San Miguel Picnic"
Sprawled on the rocks where water thrashed I felt the river tug at my back, jerk at my feet and drop into a pool splashing with children. The river sang stone while children filled their hands with light. Framing the sky birds balanced on bamboo spires. Snug in my stone and water pew I held the foaming bottle high and turned the sun like amber in my hand.
Last Edit: Oct 31, 2008 1:40:46 GMT 2 by shayepoet