Slowly We Became Silent, And Silence Itself

Poets Talk About "spots Of Time", But It Is Really The Fishermen Who Experience Eternity Compressed Into A Moment. No One Can Tell What A Spot Of Time Is Until Suddenly The Whole World Is A Fish And The Fish Is Gone.

All Good Things Come By Grace, And Grace Comes By Art, And Art Does Not Come Easy.

Of Course, Now 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 Fishermen 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 To 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.

When I Was Young, A Teacher Had Forbidden Me To Say "more Perfect" Because She Said If A Thing Is Perfect It Can't Be More So. But By Now I Had Seen Enough Of Life To Have Regained My Confidence In It.