When succession is won, the victor loops down to hover in front of the waterfall. There will be a practice dive, maybe three. The final dive must be perfectly calibrated--a swoop ending in a clean slide onto the edge of the flat rock where the water sheets gently. There a bird's claws can anchor. And the less-than-a-penny-weight force of nature will twist and wiggle and flap, tiny wings flinging droplets into the air.
At least once a week I observe rush hour. I sit on the back porch in my pajamas with my coffee and binoculars. Time does not pass. I don't see the changes in the sky or the deer that wander next to the thicket. Until the birds fly on to morning flowers, rush hour is the only reality.
When I get out of my chair, the muscles in my face are stiff from smiling and my mind is as clear as the water falling over the rocks.