Poets may say that a stream murmurs; writers will say that a river murmurs. Those who truly understand the language of the running waters know that they whisper the voices of those who have gone before them.
Driving for miles on that still, rainy morning in June, I couldn’t remember when I’d last been there. But the river knew and whispered, “Where have you been, boy? Too long… where did you get that gray hair?”
Returning to the river means returning to the roots of fishing
