It has always been my private conviction that any man who puts his intelligence up against a fish and loses had it coming.
Time. Out of nowhere it races past, leaving a settling dust trail of memory, tangent only in the photograph in your mind's eye.
Your fly loses itself in the sunset, the ambient field a carryover from thousands of casts into a dream that never ends before awakening you again and again to the constant loss of time. Where once time stood so still, it now runs into itself, rivulets becoming torrents seeking only the calm of beginnings. And still you fix on the horizon, staring into the destination of distance while tight to a pulsing magnetism that is your life and The Pursuit. Of waters that grant wishes to your imagination, daring to draw, from your tired, but joyous heart, one more blessing.
There is a space where you fit, though you know not the shape of it. Formless and without definition, yet it is all around. It is the shape of your life in the perfect loop of your time, here, on this earth, in this magnificent photograph you carry forever in your mind's eye.
Your cast carries you far away again. As your fly settles, so too do you.
Stay tight to your time.