We hiked Braziel Trail into the Sipsey and stopped where gravity took the creek through the air. That falling went through me to the pool of boulders in the canyon like it went through the moss bank dripping water to the bedrock. At the edge one tree gripped the rushing and leaned out.
In the Smokies two weeks later on the trail to Andrews Bald, we saw a root in a rock flow.
And next morning at the Townsend Y, we sat beside the bend in Little River, finning our feet under the slick rocks, our ankles getting cold, pulled and turned.
Back home the storms have come after two weeks of dry. Wind pushes the rain. Rain climbs the windows. Then a lull. Then storm. Everything lush again. The prayer I hear, Each day is forever now, each day ours forever.