How glorious it would be to feel the key turn, to be able to enter the culture of things outside us, to understand not only the what of the universe but the why. To read the slow rain of rising trout, or comprehend, really comprehend, the shocking orange of fungus, labial and exquisite, shining on the underside of a rotting log. To grasp the intent and the glory, the slow fire of life behind them.
Mark Slouka, "On the Rich Sin of Meddling"
"...the slow rain of rising trout..." How apt. Of course, I concur with the general notion here.
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