It doesn’t matter if there are no fish, in streams or rivers that I pass. I often stop, and stare awhile, imagining where they might lie, behind which rock, or run or rifﬂe. Sometimes I think I almost see them, even though they don’t exist.
It doesn’t matter if there’s only this one breath breathing in and out. With each breath, I often stop, imagining what lies ahead, or else behind, not fish, but fears, quick-silver darting, tails ﬂashing. Sometimes I almost think I see them, even though they don’t exist.