Gone fishing

> Time is but the stream I go a-fishing in. I drink at it; but while I drink I see the sandy bottom and detect how shallow it is. Its thin current slides away, but eternity remains.

There are old stone steps below this ridge, a monastery barbed wire gated, a path follows fence there far as it will go. Further two glades appear the same, little more a tree fallen upon the path; step over this or around. There the way opens into a final glade, water shines from either side: take the left. Here curve around the bay, through a marsh more solid than it appears, up a little leap into the bush beyond. There you will find the path leading now to an abandoned house, half collapsed, and a clearing open to wide waters This is the place to which you must take your rod and bait, tangle of hooks, screw tied for sinker, and bobber a bundle of polystyrene pieces. Cast there and wait, though you will catch no fish. This absence not from improper equipment or ill-timed season, you will hear this is what they say; it is the absence which you have caught, which you are there for. If ever a fish did appear it would surely mean disaster.

Your feet have walked this path all times now, in daylight and the dark, mist hung heavy and sunblown glass fell through the trees above. This way you have ever returned, though nights the sound of leopards haunt you; a fate for two dogs now. The path exists only for being trod, a rainy season may carve out rivulets—all ways must follow the water. Now you carry water along the way, wishing it would you instead. We may follow water a while, ever to the lowest point. There is a rhythm to this way, ruts which time tears of itself. These shape the way which water moves, a weather within which we are the climate of a room. This the cold that sits heavy over water, which trickles from forest and calls scarf unto you neck. Here you sit still watching while insects glassdance upon the water and frogs sing darkness down below.

Someday you will need to climb your way back, will pause exhausted along the way. For now rest easy, friend; it is a time for sitting. This is what you have sought everywhere, it was there also but you have found it here. This is the end of the rainbow, silence your pot of gold. The way was long but you may rest now—or do I see you rise already, what offends in this you’ve found?

Oh well, go on! Some people can’t be helped.