"It is those we live with
and love and
should know that elude us."
Now nearly all those I
loved and did not
understand when I was young are dead, but I still
reach out to them.
Of course, I am too old to
be much of a
fisherman, and now of course I usually fish the big
waters alone, although
some friends think I shouldn't. Like many fly
fisherman in western
Montana where the summer days are almost Arctic in
length, I often do not
start fishing until the cool of the evening.
Then in the Arctic half-light
of the canyon, all existence fades into a being with
my soul and memories
and the sounds of the Big Blackfoot River and a
four-count rhythm and the
hope that a fish will rise.
Eventually, all things
merge into one,
and a river runs through it. The river was cut
by the world's great
flood and runs over rocks from the basement of
time. On some of the
rocks are timeless raindrops. Under the rocks
are the words, and
some of the words are theirs.
I am haunted by waters.
--Norman Maclean, A
River Runs Through
It.
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