I went to my favorite little spot on Saturday, reasonably close to home,
with thoughts of perhaps going a bit further east to the woods and camping
near a brook trout stream. As I pulled off the interstate, Shane MacGowan
growls through the stereo at me:

If I should fall from grace with god
Where no doctor can relieve me
If I¹m buried ¹neath the sod
But the angels won¹t receive me

Well, think I, I'm off to face what god will have me, the woods, the river,
the kingfisher, the trout- we'll see if those angels will receive me.

Let me go, boys
Let me go, boys
Let me go down in the mud
Where the rivers all run dry

The corn reaches well above my head now in the field where I park. It's a
glorious morning, clear blue sky and cooler than it has been in quite some
time. The walk to the water brings all sorts of testaments, first the
grasshoppers jumping before the tread of my feet (grasshoppers! I smile),
there's the Indigo Bunting who frequently welcomes me, and, yep, the
raspberries are ripe, both red and black. The walk, thus encumbered by my
own devotional stations of the cross, is slow, measured.

My arrival bank-side confirms my fears. The water is low. Very low. I see
trout finning along the bottom of the deepest holes so familiar to me. My
stream thermometer measures 70. I probably should turn and head for the
higher hills of the Allegheny, where the brook always runs cold, but I
don't. I've not hiked the full length of this section of stream, never
making it beyond the mile or so that contains proven pools. So I half
heartedly cast to trout (who pay me no mind) and hike clear up to the next
road crossing, what must be two miles or so. More berries. Heron.
Kingfisher. By mid afternoon, I decide to circle the wagon and head home.
MacGowan's annunciation should have spoken louder to me than it did. But I
can't help but think the day wasn't wasted.

Bill