We sail, loose-kneed over murky jade water
towards Terrapin Point. Our blood-red ponchos
cling to our bare arms. You lift the plastic
from your sides, winged fingers –
raise a pterodactyl screech so high you take off
over the railing, to see Niagara falling first hand,
slicing through rock face, bone, pelt, fern;
all time crushed in swathes.
Be careful, I bellow, as the boat
surges past Bridal Veil breaking on boulders,
shooting mist thick as hailstones towards
you circling overhead, the bare neck of land below.