The trail winds up
through thick clusters of ridged
bark and ferns. As we approach,
a faint thunder hums above,
slowly opens a slender
crescendo like a train whistle
from a speck of track. White
flashes flicker through splays
of western hemlock,
coned branches of silver fir.
From the first bar of the bridge,
charging water pounds
down the mountain, rumbles
under cedar beams, beats
against bowls of resistant rock.
Clouds of thick mist rush
cool around our bodies. Echoes
resound where the cascade
churns to spume and disappears,
the rippling downstream
on the underside of thunder.
The next day the paper reports
a man has thrown his son
from the bridge, then himself,
the motor of his van still running.
Copyright 2016, Kay Mullen
Kay Mullen’s poems have appeared in Floating Bridge Review, Appalachia, Valparaiso Poetry Review, Crab Creek Review, and others. She has authored three books of poetry. Kay lives and teaches in Tacoma.