The Cacophony of Waterfalls

Waterfalls

A beat loud and clear pounds out; the plummeting waters, guided by stone. The rock lends a tang to the air fresh, yet bitter. Drops of liquid run off the edges of crevices, plinking into the the water below, somehow even with the roar of the water, both sounds can be heard. A steady beat of the waterfall and the crystal ring of water drops, echo harmoniously. Waterfalls are a pocket in fabric of the world, where closed rocks conserve the sanctuary, and fresh water runs down your back reviving your senses. An orchestra of sound, only heard by those who wander out and stumble upon the rushing monument.

Soil embraces every step I take. My steps crunch in the sandy soil. The ground is course and soft at the same time, and grains crust on my feet. Wind swirls, brushing the water, causing ripples. Stepping into the water, cold presents itself immediately, hard and metallic. Sloshing back and forth, the water adds a rhythm to my movements.

Mighty rocks seem to move, closing around me the further I go. Over the pool, grey stone forms figures weep drops of clear water, wearing plush cloaks of green. The rocks rise up higher than they should, reaching out and framing the yellow sun. Ancient and steady, they are guardians of the peaceful waters.

The drumming of the falls build up as I approach. Wave after wave falls like the beat of the bass. My heart seems to hammer along with it. The sheet of clear glass at the top gives to turmoil as it nears the end of its fall. My thoughts are consumed by the majesty of the great cascade. If the water only opened, it would be a door to another world. The heavy air is littered with splattering water. They rain against my skin in a constant uneven splash of cold drops. No cloud in sight still water falls in steady torrents. Rushing over crevasses, water boils down onto the ground. So much water is tumbling down it seems as if the rocks themselves are producing the liquid. Tumbling and turning, the water takes whatever direction the landscape provides. The consistent smashing water causes a mass of fog to form. Stone shatters drops, causing them to rejoin the pool of water, thousands at a time.

A cloud hangs low at the end of the falls. Clammy rocks run with lines, each telling a story about the past. Moss spreads its tendrils of growth claiming the landscape. Its minuscule forest soft to the touch. Nourished by the mist, it grows in blankets in a colorful tapestry of greens and browns. The moss extends, spreading life as it shrouds the stone.

Stories still wrapped in rock and plant life. Faint forms captured in stone depressions. White fog covers the rocky canvas, creating a transparent haze. Mist always staying one step ahead as I walk. Opening up and unveiling the surroundings as a curtain slowly drawn back by invisible hands.

The spray peppers my skin and I close my eyes. I step past the shower of spray. Nothing, nothing at all, as the world holds its breath. In the curtain of water, sounds are muted and all I feel is the water crashing down on me. My body is grounded by a heavy pummeling torrent, but

somehow my mind is floating away with the mist. Stepping back out, my surroundings become clear once more and sounds rise again.

Waterfalls look like the undertakings of giants, hardly anything else could be responsible of a water form of such magnitude. The craftsmanship of the stone has very few contenders. Towering structures rooted deep seem to never move. Everything around may change, but the stone structures stay the same for many decades. It is unbelievable to think that wind or water carved out the path for such gargantuan configurations of stone and water. It creates resonance, which rivals even the most accomplished musician. When I leave, the music stays with me for years.