Elk River Falls

is where Elk River falls

from a rocky and considerable height,

turning pale with trepidation at the lip

(it seems from where I stood below)

before it is unbuckled from itself

and plummets, shredded, through the air

into the shadows of a frigid pool,

so calm around the edges, a place

for water to recover from the shock

of falling apart and coming back together

before it picks up its song again,

goes sliding around the massive rocks

and past some islands overgrown with weeds

then flattens out and slips around a bend

and continues on its winding course

according to the camper’s guide,

then joins the Clearwater at its northern fork,

which in time must find the sea

where this and every other stream

mistakes the monster for itself,

sings its name one final time

then feels the sudden sting of salt.

Billy Collins