Where there is no water, there are no fish. Where there are no fish, there are no fishermen. And where there are no fishermen, there may or may not be worms, but there certainly are no men doing the worm dance in the open grassy field. I know, because I was the only one doing it, and I just stopped.
Once there were brook trout in the streams in the mountains. You could see them standing in the amber current where the white edges of their fins wimpled softly in the flow. They smelled of moss in your hand. Polished and muscular and torsional. On their backs were vermiculate patterns that were maps of the world in its becoming. Maps and mazes. Of a thing which could not be put back. Not be made right again. In the deep glens where they lived all things were older than man and they hummed of mystery.