Water weaves it's way down stream.  Logs and ranches attached jut out into the current.  They vibrate to an ancient rhythm, on of memory only the river knows.  Vibratto  and staccato and other orms of timing.  In a way it speaks to the average angler, infering of fish.  Where that seams meets and the river slows a fish should be holding.  Sure the fish is the end but it is a process of approach and decision that makes it pleasurable.  Fishing is a selfish actual, cruel even.  The angler is only pleased and the fish might be troubled but there are those for whom it is the only way.  Imagine that; life wasted on a fish.  Yet or some it is the only way.  The desire of choldre a mere memory, family th mistaken responsibility of someone else it is the calling of the water that appeals to the angler.  ANd knowledge.  The inside of that river bend intuits of a fish and the knowledge drives the angler to cast with aplomb.  Rain matters not as the river is wet already and snow takes no more than a sidelong glance bfore you are in the river waving a stick.  Yet there is poetry there though not all may see it.  The delicate beauty of a mayfly caught in the current.  The sinuous unrolling of a flyline from the tip of your rod.  The scent of ragged pine and rainy boggy days.  They all offer appeal like little else can do.  It is a connection with the environment the way it grooves and moves to a sacred song each step one from history's dancefloor.  This was from befor eman decided to use nature for his needs, efore the dam's and coal mines  and oil wells.  Before fracking.  A time when mystics ruled the world, men of rspect and honor, savage as they were.  They respected nature seeing it a part of them and them a part of it.  There was no seperation or distinction simply water land sky ad men and the rituals they used to understand and describe it.  The wqater was the home to fishes and there way was to rever it.  Bones and caves paitings and giant red rocks.  Earth and greenery and little itty itty bugs hiding beneath the leaves.I was out the other day surrounded by stoneflies.  It was February and 70 andmuggy and a harbinger of things to come.  The world is changing at the hands of the wealthy who see no rules nor futurs only musiness dealings and dividends.  If you let it eat at