Mist hangs in the air over Yosemite Falls. This mist floats and curls where the wind determines, and glistens in the sunshine. I lay out on a granite ledge, at the mouth of the falls, watching this mist dance in the afternoon light. Gracefully, the tiny droplets soar and dissipate into nothingness; refusing to fall down to the valley below. These waters rise as well as fall. I was waiting for a sign to form in the misty apparitions. Mist arrived and disappeared quickly, so I kept a close watch. One second, there were ships and shapes, then the next, long hair and ocean waves. Misty movements hung like silk sheets over an orchestra. Music was provided by swooping birds singing of their freedom. They dove out of their flight into the water and wrote a song for every dive. Perhaps they were interpreting the artwork of the mist. Meanwhile, I watched the show from my granite bed atop the falls. I could feel water descend onto my sunburned skin and it tingled like tiny pinpricks. I couldn’t sing like the birds, and I couldn’t paint a picture of the translucent mist, but I could feel it covering me and so I absorbed it.