My mind is a sluice box that passes sand and gravel trapping flecks of gold in its cracks and joins. My legs are levers, arms and hands are shovels tossing rock from the river bottom. My lungs slosh the box back and forth, as the water washes through. After sifting, sifting all night, I hoist myself out of the river bed, and raise my eyelids using tiny pulleys. There on the bank my hair, teeth, clothes, everything I own, is attached with hooks and clamps. I lay the gold on the bank to dry. The morning light is a fierce wind that drives the flakes like yellow leaves to strike my eyes. How could I have been so blind?