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.