As water flows through my soul I find it's inspiration an elation like no other.  Its surface is dimpled and shattered by light, yet it knows no end, only the begining of something special.  It is as if all my life has come to this moment, a representation of true desire for water and what it holds.  Fish.  Some fish are showy, splashing into the fly, going in for all it's worth, with commitment and insanity and a hopeless abandon.  It's as if they have fought off all restriction and decided to take whether it kills them or not.  Sometimes it does, but with the learned angler that tendancy has begun to change.  Others barely dimple the surface; a hidden rise, as if covering any indication of their presence.  The fly just disappears and you set the hook and what is left is the eternal struggle of man versus beast.  It is the struggle of life and oh so real.  It shows up in different places for different people.  For some it is the flats off the Cape in Massachusetts, where stripers rove in predacious packs, searching and surging when the bait is found.  There they are the predator we prey on and their voracious appetite makes them prime for the catch, but we will never understand them, and there is satisfaction in that.  For others it is the deep waters off the coast of Florida.  100, 200, 300 feet deep, where tuna patrol, boiling to the surface like some volcanic eruption, taking all that is, before disappearing like lightning and reappearing like that brightness from the sky somewhere else.  For still others, it's the beaches off Baja, chasin' down the man.  There Roosterfish, their stripes like jail house suits, engage in a riot of sardines ands sea froth.  Their combs erect, slicing through the water, they herd the baitfish like cowboys herd cattle or a sheep dogs herd sheep.  Time slows for the angler there, a pictograph of hesitation before the water busts open..  For me it is trout.  Mysterious; sinuous; irridescent; they are my deep water tuna or Cape Cod stripers or shore bound roosterfish.  They rise, and, for a moment, time stops.  It is an instance if intimacy, a moment of momentousness  There is a swirl, and then a thud and then wildness infects my brain.  It is an addiction I long to feed, the endless quest that knows no bounds.  When I am on a trout river, I am at home, engaged, understanding, thinking without thought yet deeper than ever.  It's as if each moment feeds into the next, training me with each take; both muscle and mind to where a fish is.  I learn from each catch, remembering, in a way, like joy teaches.  The water flows endless, never stopping forever changing, yet indicating, with each moment, a similarity to its past.  There, against that log, I know there's a big fish.  I never catch him, never see him, yet never lose hope.  For that moment I am touching something special, the place after heaven and death.  Or there, where that water moves slow, building up in pressure, and, though the surface is impenetrable, I know, beneath, a fish hides.  Though he may not take everyday, or even every other day, I know he will one day, and when he does, it will just strengthens my attachment to that itty bitty yet all important indication of life.  Or in winter, when the water bites at your toes, stinging, carving out bits of your body, and, although questions arise from the subconcious briskly, they are met with answers, just as briskly, like snapping your fingers and hearing that sound.  Immediacy; instancy; endlessness.  Fish are harder to find in winter.  Though, like a belly full of lead, the desire is great and I continue to cast, till hopeful has become hapless, Yet I remain hopeful.  In understandiug of the water I see the way.  Slow, inky water indicates a fish yet I take them from a frigid riffle.  Every rule has its way of breaking itself yet they remain rules for a reason, because truth has sprung from their experience and that solidity comforts.  Water can be a mystery, yet to me it is a teacher, and being among the learned is my goal.  It is not an end but a process of learning and relearning, questions to answers, solidifying sand to stone.  With each day out, I approach this end a little more, but I never will arrive.  Though it seems the definition of idiocy, it makes perfect sense; to work at something that will take forever and forever amuse.  Everyone thinks different, some personal, some guided by rules, yet I stick to water, my way and the hope of the angle, an evervescent joy and one that is endless.  It is true and I beleive and let's hope forever.