Return to the river is a trip back to angling roots

Poets may say a brook babbles; writers will say a river murmurs. Those who truly understand the language of flowing waters know they whisper the voices of those who have gone before.
Driving many miles that still, rainy morning in June, I failed to recall the last time I had been there. But the river knew, and whispered “Where you been, boy? It’s been too long … where did you get the gray hair?”

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