By The Time I Was Sixteen I

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.

In Every Trade Save War Men Of Talent And Vigor Prosper. In War They Die.

If People Knew The Story Of Their Lives, How Many Would Then Elect To Live Them?

To See God Everywhere Is To See Him Nowhere.

What Joins Men Together ... Is Not The Sharing Of Bread But The Sharing Of Enemies.