Meditations of a Fly Fisher

The only thing I know for sure
is that I know jack diddly squat.
Nothin'. Nada. Zippo. Zilch.
Would you like bacon with that
Goose Egg? Toast instead? On
a good day, I might fancy I've
squirreled a few acorns away,
may even produce one for you
from my pocket. But most days –
and those are better than good,
mind you – I know I got empty
pockets and a noggin full o'
river rocks. But that's where it
gets interesting, 'cause those
rocks have seen some shit – the
good, the bad, the better, the
best the world has to offer has
passed over those rocks in cloud
and current. Those rocks were
forged in fire and pressure, then
broken, weathered, smoothed by
water, motion, and friction, their
comrades mineralized and taken
up by snails eaten by the rainbow
trout that made its way, by fly
line and filet knife, into this pan,
frying in butter over open flame.