The beginnings of this river are in evergreen ravines
Gashes in steep mountainsides where, just below the ridge
Water gushes from some muddy mouth
And rushes down, over the jagged grey rocks
White and sizzling as it drops.
On either side of this cascade
Beneath the firs and hemlocks
Are mounds of dead needles
This is the soft floor on which the Indians walked soundlessly
And the sun never reaches
Only ferns and moss grow here in the everlasting grey.
This is the place, hidden and strange,
Of genesis and mystery.