It really was a thing of beauty. A fountain of clear water, spurting cold and clean, the sunlight scattering every which way. Even when it hit the blood—bright red arterial pulsing—the solar illumination was a picture waiting to be captured. Ansel Adams would have made millions.
Stunning as the clear fountain was, I was drawn much more to the ruddy one, and not only because it was my femoral artery putting on the show. I was intrigued by the way each blast was at the mercy of the prevailing winds. More, the consistent fade from each pump was intoxicating.