The modern waterfall
it is forever eliding
Systematically, it descends, dull yin and no foam
mist, drips, splashing, roar
and no chaos at the mezzanine
It is toothy smooth limestone climbing, the black plastic brush flowing downward,
equally (we measured)
departing from eachother, neither stagnant,
as we move on it: no, we are not cogs, but standing on them.
The process is magnitudes weaker than the smallest wave
trickling up a slanted beach
in a cove where nothing remarkable happens
The escalator, as usual, is dividing downward,
making its pattern of sound
hardly analog, more a computer generated houndstooth
or cable knit, or herringbone. Cable, tooth, bone.
An object translated into a pattern
spun and coiled and wrought by hand and loved!
Exalted! Given to the machines, to see if they can do it
And they can, and they do it so neatly.
The wave, sucks back down into the belly of the next
which is larger, carrying coarser sand up to settle in a stripe
like a hand knit thing
or a desktop background! Mine is a grassy field, dense anemones of wild, tall tassled grasses in a valley among some hills.
There is a green mown road, a distant figure in a white shirt, a barn obscured by the thin, even mist. It appears messy and blowing. It appears to have just one tiny corner of sky. It appears to be dusk, and the grass suffuse with a lush mysterious welcome.