by on November 9, 2023 :: 0 comments

“At least you can hear it.” The young man scoffed,
passing us on his return from the lookout. A dense fog
had followed us down the coast from north of Point Sur,
and was, here, asserting its power, its dominance over
this high, anxious cove caught unaware by these guests,
unprepared to be gracious, with a reluctant welcome,
and unable to show off this treasure, the plunging water.
Aging lovers, determined to be filled with wonder,
gaze out at the fog-draped cliffs and the place where
the falls should be and pick out, carefully, the darker
white of the water behind the fog, the vertical line
from cliff’s edge to the low tide beach and, being
quiet, listen, beneath the din of conversation from
other seekers, for the muted roar of the falls, the
song of water leaping and falling over the edge.
The sort of sound wherein Jeffers might detect the
power of the earth and Basho might hear a haiku.

– M. J. Arcangelini

editors note:

If we can’t sense it, is it really there? – mh clay

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