A high waterfall that knew no maps.

My friend brought me to it once,
and then I brought my siblings.

They were interested in anything
we’d missed in our exploring,
the countryside and forests
where we grew up.

The entrance wasn’t readily seen from the road,
just a barely perceptible hole
in some foliage.

We climbed up slippery roots and mud
to reach the shelf the waterfall carved into.

It ran off into a basin of stone and clay,
the water waist-deep.

We could hear it before we saw it.
Excitement entered our hearts
as we patiently and steadily inched toward it,
slipping, holding to bare roots and branches,
fingernails piercing down into mud.

It was surreal to witness.
Out of nowhere,
this private cubbyhole
filled with the thunder sound
of water striking earth.

The damp spray,
moist in the air.

My brother, my sister, and I
let it sting the hell out of us
before submitting to the shore
and being content in its veil.

On the way home
we each smiled from ear to ear,
taking life with us,
and the wild our hearts adventured for
all our youth.