A waterfall proceeds from a flood of wind whistle wet whine weather wonder water whimsy withywindle Bombadil. An alternative to media news– how many inches will fall and what catastrophe will result from said inches– is achieved.

In a whimsy of water wonder, the mountain is streaming, dreaming of fishes, dreaming of life underground underfoot underhill, wetting its whistle in long draughts of crystaline purity.  Falling from above to below, from the sky to the ground, from the heights to the depths it fills every tiny crack, fissure, hole, void; healing all divisions, it brings together what, through draught, was torn asunder. 

Whistle a merry tune as the wind whines and wends its worried way through forest growth to clean and clear the old and dead, falling as the water to meet and make a mush to feed worms and weavils, mushrooms and columbine.  If the house I built, or the den made by a coyote, or the ant’s carefully constructed hill slips and slides moved by water’s fall, so???