…. in the streams in the mountains. You could see them standing in the amber current where the white edges of their fins wimpled softly in the flow. They smelled of moss in your hand. Polished and muscular and torsional. On their backs were vermiculite patterns that were maps of the world in its becoming. Maps and mazes. Of a thing which could not be put back. Not be made right again. In the deep glens where they lived all things were older than man and they hummed of mystery.
Source: Cormac McCarthy, The Road
Inky’s Take: That stream rushes by behind the cabin that has been my permanent, temporary home in the mountains. I have sat out back and listened to the rushing water and wondered about bottles, notes, and little boy’s sailboats bobbing by on the gray water. This time, this past year, has filled something inside me that I’d forgotten. That was long empty. The trees have whispered to me, the wind blown the detritus away, and the nights filled with twinkling lights upon the mountains has restored my imagination. Breathing new life into stories of wee folk, and monsters long forgotten, and now resurrected. I love it here….