The trashing water, the rush like some pounding prayer
– Peter Heller, The Painter
Countless times I’ve stood
Here, boots off, numbed by the cold,
Redeemed by the flow:
Ripples rustle so
Softly, murmuring vespers
In the cool mountain
Air. All silent save
The rhythm of this cold creek,
Gently gurgling hymns,
Harmonies growing louder,
Splashing rapids, now roaring, rushing,
Comingled in pounding prayer.