a spot

He stands at the edge of the rise, near the top, looking down at the river. The wind gusts, brittle, like a whipsaw, but he is oblivious to its edge. Fifteen feet below the water bubbles from a blue to a frothy black as it tumbles, at first, then cascades through and down the rapids. This always was one of his favorite spots. He’d heard, once, that this spot was haunted by an Indian who’d jumped to his death after losing his wife and child in a cavalry raid. He never bothered to investigate the story, mostly because he liked it so much. There was a chivalry and a loneliness to it and for some reason the combination captivated him.