Waterfall

The river winds,

stretches its back,

collapses against rough rocks,

it meanders into a meander,

leaving tracks,

a tell-tale sign:

I’ve wandered here before.

And it keeps on following

odd paths and strange voids

in its hunt for the ocean.

Here comes the mountain’s deception:

the rock goes down

steeply, an immediate death sentence.

But the river has no power

over its actions—

it has only one goal:

advance.

It slowly but surely reaches the cliff,

torrential water, out of

control, going,

going, going.

Oh, the water has such an

unfashionable manner of travelling.

There is the edge and—

it falls,

falls,

falls,

falls,

falls.

No screaming reaches the bottom,

just the river breaking apart.

And that river,

callous on top of the mountain,

finds its composure,

and goes on

as a stream

where all you hear is the

quacking of the ducklings.