To multiply the years and divide by the desire to live is a kind of false accounting.

He kind of hunched over himself maybe remembering. Suddenly remote like his spirit retreated to a safer distance. To watch.

Never liked whiskey, he told me. But I drink it because it has a storied history.

but a memory you can only haul into the sun and hope it desiccates. Dries to something crumbled and odorless.

We listen to wind high, water low.

The sun overwhelming eyelids, pouring down like heavy water. If there is nothing else there is this: to be inundated, consumed.

We’ll keep track of this little rill. Of tying on fresh tippet and the tufty fly, and we’ll blow on it for luck. Of this cast and the next and if we ourselves are lucky it will add up to nightfall.

The love is the creek bed and the pain fills it. Fills it every day with tears.

Meaning that in fishing I had always all my life brought the best of myself. My attention and carefulness, my willingness to risk, and my love. Patience.