Hunched over, chin pressed against his neck,
he pulls at his collar to stretch it across his
nose and mouth.
The watered earth below his feet gurgles with
each step, and the mist around him seems as
thick as the mud underfoot.
But, as the sun reaches up with a hand to pull
itself above the distant hill, a beam of light
finds its way through the atomized air, bringing
the first touch of brightness and warmth to the
He fishes not for the trout under the cascading
water, but rather for the pen in his pocket. On a
small pad of paper, he writes the words he sees
spelled out as the trout move about, like his
fingers will, later, on his keyboard.
The sun’s rays dance like disco lights on the
water’s surface in concert with the movements
of the fish. The prism of water bathes the trees
in the shades of autumn.
Connected with the stream’s mud floor, its
dancing inhabitants, and the rippled ceiling
of water, he hears the words he has written
being read as his ashes are carried in the
He is filled with the feeling of grace.
Eric Miller, Pennsylvania, USA