Hiking to the Waterfall
From a distance, it’s like the roar
of cars, a highway traffic hum.
But let’s say we hear water pour
and gurgle, since the reason we’ve come
is to escape all those city sounds
and get back in touch with nature,
break our routine. Uneven ground
dips, and, with long legs, my partner
strides ahead, as I study where
to step between roots on the trail
slick with pine needle layers.
Rectangular markers are nailed
to the trees. My eyes scan for them,
like finding icons on my laptop.
Hike as task—just one more item
to be checked off the list. It never stops,
this need to always be doing
something. I yank on the strap, adjust
the weight of my pack. Protruding
ferns bend underfoot as we rush
downwards. My heels begin to burn
with each smack on the dirt. Sunblock
is stinging my left eye. We turn
past a screen of leaves and spot
falling water in a bright crash
feeding the pool, skirting the stones.
The outspread wings of a hawk slash
the sky arched above this shadowed
gathering of trees where our breath
blows ragged. I think we both feel
it: a sense that something’s been left
behind, shrugged off, as our skin sealed
with sweat meets the mist. Soon we’ll talk
but for now we take it in, see
flecks of light flash upon worn rocks
washed over by the rushing stream.
Kate Deimling is a poet, writer, and translator from Brooklyn, New York. A native of New Orleans, she holds a Ph.D. in French and previously worked as a professor and an art journalist. Kate’s poems have also appeared in Tar River Poetry, Valparaiso Poetry Review, I-70 Review, Plainsongs, Grey Sparrow Journal, Shot Glass Journal, Janus Literary, and other magazines. She is an associate poetry editor for Bracken and a flash fiction reader for Reservoir Road Literary Review. Find her online at http://www.katedeimling.com.
SLANT 