A furious mini deluge
just before me runs a course.
Its different fluices dash to ground,
weave intricate to force themselves
upon a rivulet that swallows up
the youthful, braided jets
of a dashing font.
Such little trickles trip away,
cut rock and rush,
aspire to be Niagara one day.

Sonja Broderick

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/waterfall-4/