Fill your chest with salt breath and climb the bluffs like an animal. There are points on the ascent where you must use your hands. Where the dirt is dry, likely to give way. You may want to use your hands when the dirt is soft and moist, too, because it feels good. You may even want to dig a bed in the hillside to lie in and feel how cool and soft and moist the earth can get. When you reach the top of the bluff you see the ocean on the other side. Clear blue-green. This means the water is so very cold. This means if you were to fall from the tip of the bluff you would feel the terrible shock of frigid water only a second before hitting the rocks, and it would be the most terrible thing to feel before dying. There is a row of magnificent unreachable boulders jutting out of the water, and all of them are covered with birds. They’ve come home, you think, you being a Northern creature. You think: when birds leave for winter, it’s vacation; when birds return for the spring, it’s because they must return to their true home near the cold ocean and the black rocks shaped like chunks of graphite. It’s the same for you. You are standing at the edge of the bluff looking down and hoping you won’t lose your balance. You feel tethered. You understand that the world is round and you cannot walk on water. Fill your chest with what feels like ten million particles of purity and grace. Feel shame for the weight of your mortal body. And look down.