The train is always heard, cutting through waterfalls and springs. Only by standing close to the noise of water can the sound be heard. How does this waterfall speak?
Each splash that ricochets off a rock looks the same as the one before. Each is an individual word, related to, but not exactly the same word that came before. These words create a mist moistening her face, mingling with sweat. She licks her lips experiencing coolness combined with salt.
A blue sky sticks light into the conversation, peering down through spears of cedar and fir. It’s been blue for so long. She can’t remember the grey. Below her, where the gorge meets the sound of the trains, people laugh in the sun, drink long from large cups, burn with play. They have been playing every day, forever.
Here in the dark, next to the spring, the waterfall speaks to her. This is the place she had started from. This is where it began, before all the playing. The cool and dark always came from the ground, which now speaks the same words it always has, trembling next to her wet face.