Poets Talk About "spots Of Time", But

In Our Family, There Was No Clear Line Between Religion And Fly Fishing. We Lived At The Junction Of Great Trout Rivers In Western Montana, And Our Father Was A Presbyterian Minister And A Fly Fisherman Who Tied His Own Flies And Taught Others. He Told Us About Christ's Disciples Being Fishermen, And We Were Left To Assume, As My Brother And I Did, That All First-class Fishermen On The Sea Of Galilee Were Fly Fishermen And That John, The Favorite, Was A Dry-fly Fisherman.

We Sat On The Bank And The River Went By. As Always, It Was Making Sounds To Itself, And Now It Made Sounds To Us. It Would Be Hard To Find Three Men Sitting Side By Side Who Knew Better What A River Was Saying.

As I Get Considerably Beyond The Biblical Allotment Of Three Score Years And Ten, I Feel With Increasing Intensity That I Can Express My Gratitude For Still Being Around On The Oxygen-side Of The Earth's Crust Only By Not Standing Pat On What I Have Hitherto Known And Loved. While Oxygen Lasts, There Are Still New Things To Love, Especially If Compassion Is A Form Of Love.

...life Every Now And Then Becomes Literature...as If Life Had Been Made And Not Happened.

At Sunrise Everything Is Luminous But Not Clear.