Ruth Mittelholtz

A Visit to Indian Falls

We follow the path along the river's rocky bank, climb the wooden stairs in the cliff, and the steep slope through the narrow fringe of forest. Trees of all kinds rise above us, strangely silent; there is no birdsong, no echo of ancient voices, just the soft swish of leaves in the breeze.

Suddenly we're at the top where even our own voices are inaudible, drowned in the whoosh of the water. This is where the Indian River spills over the escarpment's edge and plunges down through the geological ages to the stony bottom of the gorge, and continues on down through brush and overhanging birch, down to the bay.

On the far side of the river, broad and calm before its great drop, a few cows graze in scrub land among stumps and an old log lean-to, colours muted in the river's mist, like a faded painting of a clearing in pioneer days.

over the trees and back
the broad sweep
of a red-tailed hawk