It's always a surprise, walking down the trail cloistered by junipers, to suddenly arrive at a great expanse of sky, the limestone canyon wall, the Pedernales River far below split into streams across slabs of flat stone. Everything's so big.

Tonight, my head is down, my heart low, focused on finding a solution for my glasses that just fell apart, missing a screw. A man from Germany approaches and hovers above to see what's the matter. After he joins his departing group, I finish my repair using a bit of wire from the loop on my keys.

There is no one left now. It's Friday night and I have the entire falls to myself: the cold clean air, the last of the glow from the sun’s departure, the reflection of Jupiter and Venus like diamonds in the large quiet pool, the bat thrusting out of a cave near the great knot hole in the far canyon wall, the sound of frogs and crashing water.

The eastern sky gradually grows bright, as though dawn were approaching. Waiting for the moon to rise, I become cold and do warm-ups, feeling small in the great space. I frame the full moon in the slow rising triangle of my hands as it crests the rim, water rushing before me. The moon's light turns the flowing water into braids like bright pale hair, and the edge of a pool becomes a thread of trembling light. Is there any place in the world so beautiful at this moment?

I cross the rocks and climb the broad stone steps, alone, but not lonely, my heart whole.


This is a daytime shot of Pedernales Falls from March, 2005 when there was more water, the canyon not so bare from drought.