My “home water,” flowing from the Scapegoat Wilderness in Montana.
“The Peace of Wild Things.”
When despair for the world grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.
Wendell Berry, from Collected Poems, 1957-1982.
A wild, native denizen of my “home water.”
The Literary Fly Fisher 
August 8, 2013 at 6:19 AM |
Ah, the home water! And thanks for sharing one of my Berry favorites….
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August 9, 2013 at 3:14 AM |
It’s a good one. I should read more Berry. And I should make it back to my home waters more often.
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August 21, 2013 at 5:04 PM |
Nice fish, Ken
I still believe someday I’ll fish Montana.
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August 21, 2013 at 5:42 PM |
As far as I’m concerned you’re welcome anytime. Until it is possible, though, I look forward to fishing together in Transylvania.
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