They called him River, because he used to dance. He used to move like water. He sits outside the flower-shop on the concrete, and I sit with him. He’s bright and earthily magnetic. Ronnie River, who used to dance. The blanket wrapped around him is the no-color of age. “Do you still dance, River?” I hold his hand, vitally warm and strong, feeling the current of blood that courses through it. He rips the blanket away and where I thought he sat cross legged, his legs end above the knee. He’s weeping. “They called me Ronnie River, ’cause I used to move like water.” The people part around him like the stream around the rock.