Back to the bedrock streams again. Poole Brook is often raging, crashing down over the lip of the cliff. Most days, sitting at the edge of the St. Croix Cove Falls would wash me over, but it's barely a trickle this evening. Winding between the rocks, I can walk where I like – hopping puddles, then carefully picking my way to the edge. The lull between rain is still and ghostly, as storm clouds gather high and crash down somewhere else. Maybe I'll be soaked to the skin soon, or dry as bone and bedrock. Maybe the surface will finally crack, and you'll see through the mask of surface under tension. Thin skin of sanity, do you feel me? In all of the dark green forest, there are few places more peaceful than this.
August 20, 2019
St. Croix Cove, Nova Scotia
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