AM the spirit of the fisherman. I 

 sit by the riverside and hear the 

 splash of trout in the gray morning. 

 I go to the lake at evening and see the bass 

 flash under the sweeping bough of the 

 birch. I dream my dreams of fish. 



I enter the city office when the breath 

 of May blows warm and whisper to those 

 who love me of white falls and quiet waters 

 in the vastness of open spaces. 



I hover over the campfire where my 

 kindred are gathered and listen to their tales 

 of great catches, of unnamed winding 

 rivers, of fish that fight in waters that are 

 cold. 



I am as old as the River Nile, where the 

 ancient Pharos cast their lines among the 



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