The Splash That Waited — All morning, beside Pine Falls, Orla counted splashes with her nose pointed upstream. Read the full story →
All morning, beside Pine Falls, Orla counted splashes with her nose pointed upstream. She wanted to hear the one splash that came after every big leap, the extra plip nobody else noticed. Water boomed over the rocks, cold mist peppered her scales, and the pine needles above smelled sharp in the sun. Minnows zoomed past, giggling, “You’ll count your tail off!” Orla only flicked one fin and waited.
The falls kept making their grand noises: crash, hiss, slap, roar. Orla counted the round stones, the foamy curls, even the bubbles that popped like tiny jokes. When a jumping salmon sailed through the spray, everyone cheered at the huge splash below. Orla stayed still. There it was again, after the roar—a shy little tik from somewhere dry.
She peered not into the deepest pool, not under the glittering current, but into the hollow of an old pine root hanging over the waterfall. Inside sat a woodpecker, tapping a pebble against a shell, keeping time for every leap. “Finally,” he chirped. “My audience!” Orla laughed so hard her bubbles came out crooked, and the falls answered crash, hiss, slap, roar, tik. If you return to the leaping fish, can you spot the kind of splash worth waiting for?
