The roiling mist clouds
rolling up and out off
the battered river face
pummeled beneath
Snoqualmie Falls’
thunderous grace hold
this morning’s angled light
as a perfect rainbow arc
curved with geometric precision,
steady, stoic, elven charm
unperturbed by the chaotic
canvas upon which (or above
which or within which) it
broadcasts its confident calm,
as sure, as unyielding as it is
permeable vapor, my pebble
through its belly with impunity,
tumbling downward to thrashing
white caps playing the foil, oblivious
of the glory under which they toil.