It’s the small things that keep me going back to the rivers. The way tree-roots look when the water washes back their soil, leaving flimsy tentacles, dangling and naked. The way a bent stick on a trail can make any heart jump. The way a snag turns out to be a fish. Even fly-fishing by the highway, I am entertained by traffic, it’s loud, it’s peaceful, it’s quick. I can see people for a split second, like one egg, it’s good but gone; it’s bad and smells horrible. The leaf that is taken by wind or the pine-needle that falls straight to the ground.