My Waterfall

The rivulets cut into the ground, making a nice latticework of blue-steel water. The eggy sun shone down streams of shine; the grass and its roots hugging the ground in hopes of getting only an ounce of water. Jeremiah scooped his hand into the ground to taste the sediment– he wanted to know if the plants were being fed enough and if the ground was wet enough. He drops his fistful of clay and pebbles and sands back into the stream where it belongs; he dips his hand into the water, and there he leaves the slight imprint of his hand in the bed, just for him to watch it disappear a moment later. His jeans were caked in mud and his shirt was tough with grainy water; he sat himself up and began to follow the water upstream.

He found a waterfall, jawed with rocks that jutted out like hands and horseshoes. No fish in the water and the deep sunshine flowed into the stream to remind the river of its emptiness. Jeremiah looks at the river intently as he notices how naked the waterfall is, how vulnerable it is- deciding to keep the waterfall some company, he lays himself next to the womb of the stream and rivulets. The water ran faintly, unshaken, and undisturbed. Jeremiah stares at the crystalline fluid as it shines and pervades the ground in shallow beds–too small to be considered great, but distinct enough to be seen. He stretched and touched the textured mossy gloss of the bodily stones, feeling the tangly moss as if it were a person’s hair and the smooth rock as their skin.

Hours passed, and the moonlight layered on a pale film to the fall; his skin was white as bones in the unadulterated night, and his hand had the same color as the water. New parts of the river sprouted off from the rivulets, and though their beds looked even shallower than the ones he had first seen, they shined the greatest.