Once there were brook trouts 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 vermiculate 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.
Reposted from https://lies.tumblr.com/post/685959573109178368.
Tags: the dog stars also talks about trout, there is a real and deep sense of loss, waiting for all the more sensitive rugged individualists, because part of the anthropocene, is that trout are very cold-water-dependent, it warms a little, o2 levels fall, and before you know it, no more trout, so all these tough dudes, who don’t need anyone, but find solace in a stream and the tug on the line, are going to be staring at riffles, and runs, and imagining the perfect cast, that would drop their fly, in the perfect spot, for a drag-free float, remembering, when there were trout.
