I sit on a ridge two hundred feet above a river. On its surface, glints of sunlight play with shadows cast by passing clouds. I close my eyes to meditate, the river disappearing into the midnight behind my eyelids. Wisps of laughter float by. I peek. A raft is drifting downstream, its occupants specs of confetti at the bottom of the bluff. An oak leaf leaps from a branch and swirls downward, until an updraft reverses its direction. It lands in a pine that towers above me. A river disappears. Confetti laughs. A leaf falls up. Is this reality, or a magic trick?