Of things in the invisible
by Michael Ansara

Vernal Falls, Yosemite, in April 


Channeled through
the granite lip, a flashing exhale
of silver-smashing; 
flat planes of mist 
forced sideways;  
wild flower blossoms on a steep hillside 
coated if not in faith,
then in ice, 
trembling 
to pulverous waves, 
rainbowed air,
churned by six winged seraphim 
hovering, holy, holy  in the midst 
of the frosted rain; 
reds, blues, 
furiously elemental,
a feathery serpent
vapor crouches
over flung boulders, 
huge and nonchalant.