Ramona Falls

The Old Man's mind was elsewhere.

Jim Kidwell and I made the trek on up to Ramona Falls today.  Old Man Hood was staring off to the west.  His mind was no doubt weighing some centuries-in-the-making gambit with which he might win this or that battle in his titanic war.

We saw evidence that his spring runoff was especially dramatic this year.  The roots of hemlocks and cedars protruded from newly-cut banks of volcanic silt.  The shrunken waters of the Old Man's subsiding rage coursed noisily through the debris-strewn wake of spring thaw.  

Lilliputian forests within the forest

Along the way, I could not fail to notice the colors of lichen and moss despite their subtlety.  Worlds entire exist in the tiny forests that take root on grumbling stones.

Here am I.

The falls themselves seemed to appear out of nowhere.  One moment we were picking our way along the trail, moving by turns in shadow and in light; the next, the song of the falls was in our ears and we were dazzled by glory.

Through light...

This is not a fall from glory.  Nothing like that.  The glory is the fall.  The glory is the fall.

...to shadow.