There were three days in July when it grew so hot
the whole world was thinking one buzzing thought.
And when you thought the sun would never shut its doors
a silent darkening shoved its way forward
and the people left their porches
and went into houses, if only to make believe
there might be some rest, some sleep.
Later, with everyone in bed
you slid down the curb to the creek
and up to the falls, where a mountain of water
comes down day or night, open like an all night store.
You were surprised to find thirty or forty kids there.
Some resting, some playing in the storm of the waterfall.
A girl was clinging to the rocks, the silver water
like neon on her back and legs. And a boy made of wood
smoking a cigarette, stepped into a wall of rain.
Many were content to simply huddle on the rocks
nourishing themselves on the warm mnemonic hum
of the wet stone, or climb inch by inch
into the squinting face of the water.
Several boys jumped from the rocks into the pool
laughing when their dives were silly, laughing
when they came up wide-mouthed for air.
The water came down on them.
Crashing and smothering, until it seemed
as though the water were a tower of years, putting ashes
on the fire of their laughing, ashes on their smiles and jokes.
And when you had seen enough, you turned to walk back.
That's when you heard something.
Something roaring beyond the machine of the falls.
Something larger, quieter.
And then it was all very simple-- you heard it
in the mouths of these children.
In their mouths, and the teeth of their mouths.
