Morning Contemplation…
Imagine you are a good fisherman.
You know the rivers, the speed of the water, the shadows of willow trees where the carp rest.
You are skilled. Intuitive. Meditative.
One day, you find yourself in a strange landscape. A mountainous landscape with no one around for miles.
As you come around, you see you are in a cabin and whilst trying to figure out what the fuck is going on, you see a fishing rod, a net, bait. Your fly fishing kit is there, neatly stacked in an alcove in the corner.
You figure, why not?
You walk through the pines and redwoods, smelling the sweet after-death and the wild ginger.
You feel mulch and decayed conifers. under the soles of your leather boots.
Eventually you hear the river. You don’t see it yet, but you hear it, smell it; you sense it through minute detail and your own life presence.
You walk along, parallel to the singing. water. Imagining the rocks and knowing the tree-line. A barn owl watches you and knows you. A buzzard circles high, silent as smoke from a dying fire.
You begin to read the river. To know the fish. To somehow become one with the trapped air in the bubbles.
Eventually, you turn – for no reason other than a whim, a notion to change direction; you sit on a solitary rock, perfect for a fisherman. Made, for you. Prepared, for you.
You watch the fish pass back and forth. And they watch you, through the silvery blue light of an endless day.
Then one of them leaps onto the rock next to you. It flaps and shakes as its life slowly evaporates.
A tear wants to form in your eye, but you are uncertain whether it is a tear of despair or joy…
And that thought never leaves you.
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