Every so often, great forces reach up and grab someone. I am taken to where it’s safe to stand, shown where you never want to go.
Someone’s memorial marker is still lustrous from 1998. There is a can with flowers, dried now.
MacKenzie State Park is named for someone who was barely twenty one when he died in 1930. I wonder if he died here, if he is remembered by the place that killed him.
I stand on the precipice and everything is roar, then indrawn breath, then roar. The roar can be modest or overwhelming.
Water is an iridescent, glassblown blue that flashes to brilliant white. Energy is not so much heard as felt–even hearing the sound is feeling the water’s hard slam.
The edge is very high and dry, and I peek over and to the left, where the great hand leaps up and pulls in the unwary. Someone has built a little stone table, big enough for preschooler tea, but the waves can’t be seen there. Water flows in to the left channel of caves and shelves, mostly playful, mostly moderate, mostly.
I didn’t see the largest of the large, but the large I saw was enough.