The swaying trees squeak like rusted porch swings in the cool April breeze, autumn-like but with a different scent— hints of honeysuckle...

I perch on a rock and watch Austin pastel the twisted trunk of a tree; he shades and contours and cocks his head, he flicks his fingers...

Dad explains silica to me as we sit together on a slanted rock. He smiles a lot here, with science and the shore.

I want only to walk, not to arrive at the falls but something greater, a destination that stretches endlessly from the salmon to the sea.