At bottom of the rocky gorge a river beautiful moved with destructive force. I stood at the top, my gaze drawn like rocks sinking, my toes kissing the rim. The water was grey, not from filth, but from clay. I closed my eyes and the wind swayed my body like a sapling tree. I played a game in my head: “if the wind pushes me towards the river, I’ll jump.” The wind pushed West, parellel to the ravine. Today was not the day.