Ode to Old Days of the Gorge

I stand resting both hands on the swollen wood before me as if bracing myself, watching thin roves of fog slip from their matron bulk and race away. The delayed and dulled roar of the mighty New below mingles with gusts of whipping wind to compel rogue streams farther down the valley.

I am a bystander to this swirling ceremony; a seemingly intimate affair that is newly indifferent to the intrusion of my presence. I no longer belong in such transience; I am solid. Little tufts part and delicately graze my skin, leaving nor taking anything. My body does not join itself with this translucence as it once did. I have become only a spectator, permitted to bear witness still for some unspoken reason.

Has this reception gone out of me? This voice which used to tear through my entirity, swelling my very soul, speaks now so softly. Is it a tone that my maturing ears are gradually meaning to forget?  I wish for its hum to persist! I wish to remain permeable.

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