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ACOOL BLUE RIVER CUTTING THROUGH GREEN PASTURES LOSES ITS COLORS. THE crispness of water rushing over white rocks is silenced. The fresh scent of damp earth is soured. The river is a weapon. A handmaiden to pain. It quenches no thirst. It denies air. Instead of green and blue, the mind's eye sees the struggle to breathe. The effort to lift a broken limb. The water hits the rocks like elbows, ankles, and knees. A face is lost as it grates across a boulder, a boulder smooth and slick only to the hand that slides over it, grasping. Nails ripping. Teeth breaking. The water cold, almost frozen. Moving. Rocks bloodied. Everything hurts. The body is thrown to shore. Crumpled. Empty. The river carries away the evidence. Washes the pain off the rocks. Carries it down through the valley where women collect drinking water and children bathe. A child finds a tooth and tosses it to shore where it turns into sand. The …