Falling Waters: Under the City Geocache

Nashville Public Square   parking garage waterfalls—     a Green Roof Award

      for harvesting rain, hosting         picnics, concerts, second dates,

          an oft-overlooked spot         where city planners preserved       underground water

    currents, integrated park,   seep, Ford, Toyota, Volvo,

pigeon coos and stone   profiled time, wildcat sirens     plummeting from the

      Courthouse, pedestrian gush         over historic markers:

          1714         The only white resident       in 12,000 years

    set up a river station,   procured bear pelts from natives:

Circa 1000   A.D., Woodland Indians     cultivated bean

      seeds, corn to augment forage—         a prehistorical peak

          in development         evidenced by jewelry,       pipes, combs—a complex

    territorial people   eroded by manufacture,

guns, foreign germs, myths.   There is no paradise but     self-sufficiency.

      In 1748         160,000

          deer, river otter,         beaver skins left on pack trains—       wild man-made profit.

    Rivers felt boats of hollowed   alder, lime-snared birds, dripping

trawl of nets, wood split   with wedges, then iron, until     each cornfield became

      labor. Toil mastered every         thing, relentless toil, tillage...

          But now—we tuck signed         guitar picks in rusted bike       locks, pile sand dollars

    beneath Chet Atkins statues,   squirrel nuts for others to find

in safe deposit   boxes, public offices     we hold an instant

      then turn over, give ourselves         a reason to go anywhere,

          be here, where someone         has been before, everywhere       before. Renew our

    potential to scavenge up   something from found packages

of heirloom pea seeds.     Stranger whose real-time capsule       I fondle, to you

        I leave a photograph of           Eustace and Winnie taken             here in 2000.

          Outlined in organdy, she         leans over the rail, tip-toed

      in heels, outreaching     one finger to the weeping   wall, drizzle of iron,

  en route to the symphony,     one sepia strand of hair

      undone in exhaust         scented air. One hand on her           hip, pussy willow

grey eyes in the headlight wash     looking two hundred feet up.

    On the back in wax   pencil: “For all such things left intentionally.”

Find out why this place is so   special, photograph yourself

    standing by the North-       West elevator waterfalls,         measure the stream mag.

          using the chart provided.       Magnitude is measured by

      discharge, 1 being     largest, 0 being no   flow or historic flow. Thank you.