It all starts with the weather. Comes a day when summer…
In a canyon of the Gorge
prills Glade Creek Falls—
beholden, as is proper, to the New.
Only the Nile is older.
Obscenely young, prey to impulse,
we indenture to the Glade—
our trysting place—and to each other.
Like the Bible, like Mythography,
we truss, foretold, in writ scrolls of eternity.