This turn...

If you have ever found yourself standing on the edge of a wandering brook, the headwaters of an eventual force of nature, you know of where I speak. A place of severe beauty, making each footstep fall short and meaningless on this land of endless wind, and never a moments rest as the silent waters start their run toward the falls. Each gallon fighting gallantly against upstream eddies, dodging the tangles of a wild place, hoping to meet something plain and simple someday. You know this place without knowing or looking. It calls us with whispered trumpets, a sirens song stretched on the backs of boyhood fancies. The rivers twists are not without its straights nor is the world in which we fish. I know only this turn and cannot see what lies ahead. Only this turn, without compass or map, just blind momentum. Only this turn, this time.