Lens #940

The waterfall. Replaceable. But an invigoration. Even form here. On the side. Behind the barrier. The black enamel painted steel barricade. I lean against. Feel my body swaying, tipping in the direction of the gushing water. Then stopped.

A bird on a rusty piece of piping, swoops down and lands, as if placing its two feet with a precision it had exacted from long ago on to the grassy partly submerged island right in the middle of the swirl. Some distance away it lands.

I have just left the room where I have been all morning. Just left it and rolled over cobble-stones on a bicycle just missing a darting child to be here where the drop in levels causes the water to rush. It was like that in the room, a small boy rocking on top of me, nudging a movement out of me piece by piece until we became a rocking machine. Before that and as a practice run for something that no one could foresee in advance, he crept under a red plastic dome and lay there with the sun from the nearby window penetrating the shell and warming his body softening his eyes.

Only his legs in the grey flannel trousers and his feet with the blue socks that he sometimes tucks his hands into were visible. A small ball of fluff on the surface of the carpet just at the outer rim of the dome. His fingers dyed red from some previous activity dart out and retrieve the rugged ball. Then the ball is shot out again and lands near my hand. I take it, reposition it further up just inside the lip of the dome. It is retrieved immediately and placed directly on top of one of my fingers.

We continue in this way resituating and passing back and forth this wound up ball, unravelling fingers so as to place more exactly and according to small diversions to what had gone before this repeated but never the same placement. Then comes the rocking. Then the waterfall, the hill up above the boats on the water, one tumbling out of the other.