The Tarn Amid the Rocks

The water pours forth as from a dream, one mystery into another. The cliff — scaled and haggard as a dragon’s hide — gazes down as if remembering when it, too, was a constant flow. Once upon a time, even the rocks were liquid.

After the plunge, everything spreads out: the rush is followed by calm. Ripples stretch to the stones. The pool is a vast eye, unblinking. As the white thread unspools, an emerald fabric is woven in the depths.

It is the height of fall. The rowan and the birch have turned, and now flakes of fire scatter on the wind.

I drip with the scent of burnt leaves as I turn away.