When I Was Young, A Teacher Had

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.

Unless We Are Willing To Escape Into Sentimentality Or Fantasy, Often The Best We Can Do With Catastrophes, Even Our Own, Is To Find Out Exactly What Happened And Restore Some Of The Missing Parts.

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

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.

Eventually, All Things Merge Into One, And A River Runs Through It.