It’s hard to tell the rains from the waterfall some days. It hammers down like an angry god is casting stones from the clouds above, pausing for but a moment to strike with lightning and with thunder as a gust swirls by to ensure that the wet will finds its way anywhere.
But even when the ground is dry and the clouds hide behind trees and the horizon, that sound of thundering water, a torrent of mountain blood still sweeps by to cut through softer ground, and slowly tear rocks apart.
Above the falls I seek out gold in the older cracks of ancient rocks, left behind by rapid waters. Now and then a little nugget, as small as a speck of dust lays waiting to be picked and taken home.
Oh what a joyous sight it is to gaze upon that yellow dark, almost as joyous as an evening in those storms where the roof is fixed and study, and the walls stand fast and dry.
It’s time to get back to digging, scraping, panning through the dirt. The smell of storms is on the horizon, hiding far behind the trees. And there my gaze flitters up to glance at all around me. For all is soundless near the great and thundering falls, and only sight will catch those coming for my yellow dark.
A prompt response.