Soles and Toes

This time of year, in the dark, cavernous space behind North Falls, one must shout to be heard — such is the thunder generated by the water landing on the rocks below. But shout about what? Oddly enough, we met a raven there and stood within three feet of the bird, which, if my interpretation was correct, was amused by our presence. A hundred feet farther along the trail, we looked back, and he’d yet to move.

The trail was glorious. It was muddy. It was wet. There were puddles, mud-holes, and miniature streams. After a winter away, my bare, sandaled feet reveled in every step, only nine millimeters between my tingling soles and toes and the earth.

Anyway, tho’ I just wrote — I hope you’ve received my last letter by now — I thought I’d let you know.

[ 1943 ]