Like many fishermen in our nation, where spring days are not long enough and the silence of the summer morn stills the air, I often drop my trolling motor before the early morning mist has risen. Then, and on the stilled glass surface of the lake, all existence fades to a being of my soul and memories of a morning song of a Carolina Wren and the sound of an open face real drag and the hope that a fish will strike.

Eventually, all things merge into one, and our rivers run through it. Our rivers cut through centuries gone by and run over rocks since buried from the basement of time. On some of those rocks now forgotten and buried are timeless raindrops and the memories of netting fish with family and friends, both past and present. Under the rocks are the words, and some of the words are theirs.  I am haunted by waters.   

Inspired from the words of a poem from "A River Runs Through It"