Sunday, May 16, 2021

Sunday, Saying Yes to the World

Once there were brook trout in the streams in the mountains. You could see them standing in the amber current where the white edges of their fins wimpled softly in the flow. They smelled of moss in your hand. Polished and muscular and torsional. On their backs were vermiculate patterns that were maps of the world in its becoming. Maps and mazes. Of a thing which could not be put back. Not be made right again. In the deep glens where they lived all things were older than man and they hummed of mystery.

Cormac McCarthy, The Road

1 comment:

Barbara Rogers said...

I love seeing white water with all the droplets showing, as opposed to the longer exposure shots which make white water turn into a big blob. Thanks for the lovely poem as well about trout and mountain streams and life.