Cumberland Falls

^{O, let them be…
    Gerard Manley Hopkins}

In high school the biggest dare was to slink 
over the slick rocks flanking Cumberland Falls, 
where the wide but shallow river dives 
seventy feet into a deep pool of froth.
There, people say, catfish big as men twist 
and slither, awaiting suppers sped
their way. You can see a rainbow at night, 
shimmering on the mist during a full
moon and a clear sky. This is true. I snuck
behind the green curtain once with my best
friend, whose name I won’t say because he
never came out. Just as we reached the veil
of water where we would disappear
into another world, I slipped. My right
leg slid down the cold boulder and before
I could plunge into the churning chaos
where torrent met river, he grabbed hold
of my hand. I was so electrified
by his touch I didn’t think of how close
I was to being swept away.
Instead I thought how a small moment
of ecstasy is akin to drowning.
He held on for a beat longer
than necessary. The roar behind
the falls was a deafening symphony heard
only by those brave enough
to penetrate this darksome cavern
carved by centuries. Fern-laden, alive
with the smell of moss. A secret cathedral
made of wildness and wet. We were mesmerized,
and stood watching the cascade as if frozen
yet, as if we might see through to the other side.