GHOST of falling water, the shade of the Glowing Waterfall, met far off and from above in the Sister’s working. In the reddening he is faced at his own height, a column of white thunder between burning walls; here the wanderer stands back at the canyon’s rim, and the lord of falling water is made small in a realm of blue stone, his white fire the only unquenched thing in the frame. His office is to show that brightness is not size: diminished to a thread at that distance, he is still the first thing the eye finds and the last it leaves. The forest that watched him burn now stands its night watch in silhouette along the rims. Even his shadow falls; even falling, it shines.
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