the fish haven't been here in years. the old fellow keeps coming here every few mornings as the sun peeks out over the spruce tops and cast into that rock bed where the deeper water held trout so long ago. he cast and waits, cast more and waits longer. its not that he doesn't notice the water isn't there anymore, I just don't think he believes it. he is crossing over, casting into the past, sitting quietly in the present with little care for the future. maybe he is looking for the big one to finally bite and pull him in, down river, and back home.
